


The Way of the Chosen

by Auriana Valoria (AuriV1)



Series: The Black Phoenix [2]
Category: Forgotten Realms
Genre: Blackstaff Tower, Dreamwalking, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kelemvorites, Waterdeep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25733626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriV1/pseuds/Auriana%20Valoria
Summary: After suffering years of endless turmoil during the Second Shadow War and its aftermath, Rhaine Alcinea struggles to transition into her new life as the newly-promoted Chosen of the Lord of the Dead. Though haunted by the shadows of her past, the half-elven Favored Soul must find a way to forge ever onwards, allowing herself to let go of the weight that hangs about her shoulders like an anchor.Through her subsequent journeys across Faerûn in Kelemvor's name, working alongside friends both old and new, she learns how to have faith in herself again, how to love the new life she has been gifted, and what it means to be a Chosen.
Series: The Black Phoenix [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804915
Comments: 16
Kudos: 8





	1. Uncertainty

_3 Mirtul, 1377DR_

It was an early summer morning in the City of Splendors – early enough that hardly a soul stirred save the Watch as they changed shifts in each ward. Among those few others who set foot upon Waterdeep’s cobbled streets, however, was Rhaine Alcinea, fabled slayer of the King of Shadows and Chosen of Kelemvor.

The latter was a title the young Favored Soul and Doomguide of the Lord of the Dead had held for little over two months, now, the bestowal of which she herself was still becoming accustomed. Waterdeep was no stranger to Chosen; the City of Splendors was already home to two in the service of Mystra, one of whom was also a member of the famed Seven Sisters. Thus, having yet another in their midst was not all that spectacular to the resident Waterdhavians, who were somewhat desensitized to such wonders.

Rhaine herself, on the other hand, had been taken completely by surprise.

Consequently, she had found herself in an unsettling state, and one that she had not experienced often in her life: that of utter uncertainty. It was maddeningly paradoxical, in a way, as the life of a Chosen was indeed rather certain; they were the hands of their gods upon the Prime, gifted with immense divine power and tasked with using it to complete the duties the rest of their patrons’ followers could not. Yet, despite knowing this well, Rhaine was left struggling to reconcile her old life with her new one – that of the shadow-plagued life of the heroine of the Sword Coast with the bright dawn of her existence as Kelemvor’s Chosen.

Indeed, this internal struggle was what yet lingered in her thoughts as she emerged into the still morning air outside her patron’s temple in the city. The Doomguide was intent on a quiet walk alone before the daily bustle of activity began, her ultimate destination the aptly-named City of the Dead. Such a moniker was a double entendre for the locals, whose deceased loved ones were bound not only for the local cemetery to which Rhaine was now headed, but also its planar namesake – the home of her god upon the Fugue.

Ironic, then, that she herself had set foot upon the soil of the latter, and had returned very much _alive_.

It had been over a year since such a planes-shaking moment… since she had ended the curse of the spirit-eater in Rashemen, and with the aid of a dear friend among the Red Wizards, had come home again, her mysterious and lengthy disappearance after the defeat of the King of Shadows at last brought to an end.

But it still felt like only yesterday.

Sighing heavily, Rhaine pulled the hood of her robes over her head, tucking her black wings tightly to her body, and began a leisurely pace down the sidewalk in front of her temple home, attempting to direct her mind to more pleasant thoughts. Her emerald gaze passed over the intricate, floral-patterned carvings adorning the granite posts of the wrought-iron gate, and a faint smile tugged at her lips. Even in such hard stone and metal, there was an elegant and dignified beauty, and one that had not faded over the years.

Construction of the structure that would eventually become the Temple of Kelemvor in the North Ward of Waterdeep had, in fact, begun during Cyric’s decade-long tenure as god of the dead; after the Temple of Myrkul had been razed to the ground and all traces of the Lord of Bones wiped from the city’s map, the Cyricists had initiated work on their own house of worship. Yet importing the vast amount of required dark grey granite to the City of Splendors took time, and even after nearly ten years’ worth of work, the temple remained largely unfinished – the vestibule, the nave, and the interior courtyard were the only portions of the structure that had reached any semblance of completion, and they were bare bones at that.

Fortunately, this meant that the Kelemvorites who followed could easily continue the project to their own specifications, with only minimal alterations to the existing edifice. Over Rhaine’s time there as an acolyte, the temple was expanded over the vast portion of land the Cyricists had seized and flattened… legally or otherwise.

Now, it took the stunning hybrid form of half-castle, half Chondathan cathedral: equal parts a formidable fortress and a place of solemn worship warded against evil and necromantic magic – a combination that had turned out to be a necessity when the wicked minions of the drow _Valsharess_ had invaded and swarmed the streets in the not-so-distant past. All emblems of Cyric had long been chiseled away, replaced with the elegant dark banners that hung from the parapets between the stained-glass windows and exhibited Kelemvor’s holy symbol in golden and ivory-hued stitching. The outer walls that bordered the perimeter of the temple’s grounds were graced with slate-shingled watchtowers, soaring high enough to grant their sentries a bird’s-eye view of the City of the Dead mere blocks to the south. Matching thinner, decorative spires then thrust upwards into the sky from flying buttresses encircling the body of the nave. At the rear of the temple proper, the belfry stood, the deep and majestic voices of the bells housed within chiming the hour as effectively as was possible, as for those who dedicated themselves to serving the Lord of the Dead, time was of great significance.

These bells now sounded the early morning hour as Rhaine made her way through the streets to the City of the Dead her temple watched over so carefully. Waterdeep’s ancient cemetery, though open to the public during the day and its sporadic spots of greenery within its guarded perimeter serving as a park to the visiting citizenry, was still a reliable place in which to escape the smothering environment of the rest of the sprawling metropolis without leaving the city walls. And now that the Kelemvorites had served as its designated guardians and caretakers for very nearly the past decade, it was both cleaner and far more secure than it ever had been before – a true place of peace for the living _and_ the dead.

The guards at the nearest public entry nodded in acknowledgment to the Doomguide when she passed them by but said nothing to her, instead quickly returning their focus to the Waterdhavian streets as she entered the open wrought-iron gates. Once within, she noticed that few others were present in the cemetery at such an early hour – it was far more popular to take a picnic at midday. There was, however, a thin slip of a figure in a dark cloak hovering around a cluster of graves in the distance. Rhaine knew it instantly as Ingrid, the deaf Illuskan girl who had arrived at the Temple of Kelemvor a few years previous. Though she didn’t serve in any clerical capacity, she _did_ aid the clergy in other ways, working as a seamstress chief among them. In fact, the robes Rhaine currently wore had been designed by Ingrid herself and were the product of the girl’s cleverness after being presented with the significant problem the Doomguide’s new wings had caused. Such an obstacle would have been intimidating for any tailor, but Ingrid had overcome it with astonishing ease, revolutionizing the Chosen’s whole wardrobe. In so doing, she had proved her worth to the temple ten times over.

When not busy with patching clothing or altering garments, however, Ingrid occupied herself with other small tasks, including the one with which she was now engaged – tending to the gravesites of the City of the Dead. With a huge bundle of fresh flowers from the temple garden lying in the crook of one arm and a flint-and-steel in her other hand, she had set about as she did almost every morning, ensuring each grave and tomb had a blossom upon it and that all candles remained lit in their hooded lanterns. It was a seemingly small task, but it saved the aging gardener a trip, and it allowed her to perform the most basic duties of a Kelemvorite: ensuring the dead were never forgotten.

With a slight smile on her face, Rhaine approached cautiously so as not to frighten her; as Ingrid was deaf, it was terribly easy to scare her if she was too immersed in a task to notice someone near her. Rhaine herself had made this mistake a few times, though she had apologized profusely at each occurrence. If Ingrid had been upset by it, however, she never had shown it. In fact, the girl was one of the Chosen’s closest friends in the temple now, aside from Father Dunstan. Her natural warmth of personality and her small kindnesses to those around her had endeared her to practically the whole clergy, but it was Ingrid’s willingness to treat Rhaine as she wished to be treated – as a normal person – that had earned her the Chosen’s steadfast friendship.

At last, Ingrid looked up to see Rhaine standing a few paces away, and she offered the Doomguide a broad smile and the tiniest dip of a curtsy in greeting – the only polite sign of deference Rhaine would tolerate. Though her hands were full, Ingrid still managed to sign, “ _Good morning, Lady Rhaine._ ”

The sign language that Ingrid used had been new to Rhaine when she had first met the girl, but the Chosen had been determined to learn it for ease of communication between them – and for future usefulness’s sake. She was “fluent” only in the sense that she could spell out whatever words she didn’t already know, but she was still able to converse with Ingrid far more easily than she had been when they first met. Thankfully, Ingrid was a good lip reader as well, and the Doomguide spoke her words as she signed them in case of any misunderstanding.

“ _Good morning, Sister Ingrid_ ,” she replied with a dip of her head in response, using the cloistered title even though Ingrid was not an acolyte. “ _How fare you this day_?”

Ingrid’s smile remained. _“Well as always. And you?”_

At that, Rhaine mirrored her expression, though her smile did not reach her eyes. _“Well enough. Though my thoughts are heavy, as they sometimes are. I am hoping a walk here will lighten them.”_

In response, Ingrid cocked her head, her brow furrowing slightly. _“I’d be happy to talk anytime, if you need an ear._ Eyes _,”_ she corrected herself after a pause, laughing a little.

The Doomguide shook her head, even as she smiled again. _“I thank you for the kind offer, Sister Ingrid, but I will be fine. Besides, I don’t wish to interrupt your task.”_ She gestured at the flowers the girl held. _“No doubt your work pleases Kelemvor, as it pleases us all.”_

She then offered the reddening Ingrid another polite dip of her head before resuming her walk, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly as she wandered at her leisure through the cobbled pathways of the cemetery. Though Rhaine truly appreciated Ingrid’s offer of a sympathetic “ear,” the Doomguide was unsure if she could even properly voice the thoughts that haunted her during restless nights. They were inextricably interwoven with events of her recent past – events that yet lingered over her like a dark shadow. For, even as circumstances had turned out better than she had ever hoped they would, the terrible ordeal she had endured to reach that astonishingly-pleasant end was sufficient to leave a lasting mark on her mind and soul.

Dealing with the King of Shadows had been enough all on its own. The stress, worry, fear, and frustration that had all slowly accumulated over the years she had served Neverwinter… those things alone had been enough to send her to her knees like a crushing blow when she had recovered her memories in the City of Judgment. But that in addition to the agony of desperately clinging to her faith for months, through crippling physical and spiritual torment alike, all the while certain of a horrid fate awaiting her at the end of her road – it had been too much.

It was _still_ too much.

Rhaine could not bear to think of those days, even as it had brought her three very good friends, as well as eternal allies among some of the most powerful spellcasters in all Faerûn. Too much darkness was interwoven with it all. Whenever those memories reared their heads, she shoved them behind a metaphorical wall and refused to let them leak into her thoughts any further. The past was in the past, where it _should_ lay quietly. She had important duties to attend, and now that she was Chosen, there was neither time nor reason to dwell on such things.

And yet, like a ghost, it all kept coming back to haunt her – regrets and guilt for so many things… poor decisions and failure to act soon enough chief among them. These deficiencies had cost both herself and others dearly. Rhaine had never wanted a life of leadership, and yet it had been thrust upon her when she had least expected it… and she had been forced to either adapt, or die and let others die with her. Faced with such a scenario, she had no choice but to learn as she went, and though others might have argued that she had done well enough under the circumstances, she knew she could have done better. _Should_ have done better.

All that in addition to the burden of knowing the numerous tenets of her faith she’d broken to save her own soul, despite having been forgiven for doing so by the only being whose forgiveness mattered to her, was enough to make her truly question how she could properly function as a leader for her fellow Kelemvorites.

It was a question she wanted to voice aloud, and yet she felt she had no right to burden anyone else with such thoughts. To do so was a further sign of inadequacy. How could she be strong for her brothers and sisters of the faith, carry the weight of duties that were beyond their capacity to accomplish, if she could not shoulder her own personal troubles, however heavy?

Only Father Dunstan knew the details of what had happened to her in Rashemen. She had confided in no other since. In truth, as he was more of a father figure to her than her real foster-father, he had been the only one at the time she felt close enough to divulge such deep and personal pain. Sister Bethany was still around, working as one of the many morticians, though Rhaine had never grown far past friendly acquaintances with her. Everyone else she had known during her time as an acolyte had moved on to other monasteries elsewhere on the Sword Coast, or even beyond. Ingrid was one of only a small handful of fellow Kelemvorites in her own temple with whom she had begun to form close bonds since her return.

Ilmvyr was another. The quick-tongued, eccentric drow wizard had arrived not even a month after Rhaine had been Chosen, with full intentions of joining the Church of Kelemvor in full; he had astonished them all when he had made a beeline for the statue of the Lord of the Dead behind the altar, bowing before it in obvious deference to the Judge of the Damned. Despite the fact his presence made the resident clergy more than a little uneasy, as all still remembered the atrocities of the _Valsharess_ , Rhaine’s newfound ability to see the faith of mortals had affirmed that his intent was honest. Thus, he ultimately had been accepted into their fold, albeit with great trepidation.

Wizards in the Kelemvorite Church were not unheard of, especially those who displayed talent for magic both arcane _and_ divine. But Ilmvyr’s particular kind of experience – that of a drow born and raised in the Underdark – was both unique and valuable, and though many still shied from him, there was no doubt that his knowledge and training were assets to their cause.

Not only that, but the drow’s blunt honesty and sharp intellect were refreshing, especially amidst the highly-political environment of Waterdeep. In a way, he reminded her much of Sand, her old moon elven companion from Neverwinter, albeit with a far more introverted nature.

Then there was Freya and Bjorg, a pair of young childhood friends from the Silver Marches. They were acolytes both, but they were scheduled to be graduated with full sisterhood by the year’s end. Freya, who had been accustomed to training with a sword and shield back home, had full intentions of becoming a prestigious Doomguide, despite the fact she had trouble wielding the required larger bastard sword. Bjorg, on the other hand, was a druidess among Kelemvor’s faithful – perhaps rarer even than arcane spellcasters, as few who professed themselves as guardians of the Balance cared for Death’s side of it. Still, Freya and Bjorg had simultaneously received a calling from Kelemvor and had eagerly answered it, even though their talents differed.

Rhaine smiled to herself as she sat upon a tree-shaded stone bench beside one of the noble mausoleums, crossing her ankles beneath its seat. Freya was, by far, the more outspoken of the two young women. With a bluntness to match Ilmvyr and a tenacious spirit, Freya threw herself into her studies both intellectual and martial. The latter of those pursuits Rhaine had a plan to assist with in the form of a mithral blade, one the Chosen had commissioned from a local smith and planned to surprise Freya with at a later date. Though the girl was enthusiastic, her gangly and thin build had not made it easy for her to train with anything larger than a typical arming sword, and without a specialized focus in the bastard blade favored by Kelemvor, she would never achieve the coveted title of Doomguide. Yet, Rhaine understood that the problem was not the length of the larger weapon, but the added weight, however minimal. Thus, a blade crafted of lighter mithral would make it easier for Freya to build her stamina and experience with such a weapon without taxing her overmuch.

The druidess Bjorg was quieter and more reclusive than Freya was, preferring to listen rather than speak. She had just as quick a wit as her friend, however, and hardly any event around the temple – or outside of it, for that matter – escaped her notice. Indeed, she had quite the team of informants in the temple cats, which had been brought to the premises – and to the City of the Dead – in order to keep the city’s vermin in check. When not engrossed in her studies, Bjorg tended to these felines who made themselves at home in the temple’s gardens.

Speaking of such, an abrupt but soft bump against Rhaine’s leg drew her attention downwards to where one of said cats was currently rubbing up against her shin. She recognized this one instantly as a bright orange tabby affectionately called One-Eye, so named for only having one good, bright yellow eye; the other was milky from blindness. Smiling slightly, the Doomguide extended her hand for him to sniff before stroking his back, the creature eagerly pushing into her palm at her touch. Laughing a little, she then picked up the half-blind cat and set him in her lap to give him a bit more attention, all the while her thoughts trailed back to his caretaker and her friend.

The two young women had a similar relationship to Rhaine as Ingrid. In fact, those three were the only ones bold enough to consistently join the Chosen at her table at mealtime. They would never know just how much the Doomguide appreciated _not_ being put on a pedestal and avoided, as so many of her other clergymen did. Dunstan would occasionally drop by, of course, but his administrative duties almost made it a necessity for him to dine with his fellow colleagues so as to coordinate plans and update on legal developments. The rest of the Kelemvorites formed their own small groups, as was expected, and most stayed well away from the Chosen… as if she might exact the swiftest of punishments on anyone who reached for a second helping of bread.

Lastly, then, there was Sir Niall, the new paladin instructor for the Waterdeep branch of the Eternal Order, who had taken Sir Matthias’s place when the latter had been relocated to a rural monastery sometime during Rhaine’s Sword Coast adventures. A half-elf like herself, Niall was a far kinder man than his predecessor had been, preferring to inspire his recruits with gentle encouragement… though his standards were in no way low. He demanded only the best from his squires, but it was easy for them to rise to such demands when he showed them how they bettered themselves through the effort. Rhaine had voiced her approval to him on numerous occasions, but Niall took her compliments only with a nod of appreciation and a slight blush.

Yet, even though Rhaine thus found herself in good company among these new brothers and sisters, she felt more isolated than ever. She had both a past and a future few could understand, and there were even fewer who could give her guidance regarding either. Though she had at one time considered speaking with her fellow Chosen in the city, she had quickly backed down from such an idea. Khelben Arunsun and his lady, Laeral Silverhand, were notoriously busy people – busy with the same sort of tasks in which Rhaine would soon find herself involved. The Doomguide had never even seen the “Blackstaff,” and Laeral she had only glimpsed once in the market, purchasing what appeared to be a new dress during what little free time the good Lady probably had. No, she would not bother the Chosen of Mystra with such a trifling issue as personal uncertainty.

Kelemvor himself, then, was the most obvious option remaining, and yet he had been silent since granting her new power, leaving his new Chosen on pins and needles awaiting his first order. She had been loath to ask for his council, to admit to the crippling self-doubt that had plagued her mind and soul these past tendays, and yet it seemed that was the only viable option left to her. But how to approach it?

She sighed, and One-Eye jumped from her lap to continue his daily hunt for unsuspecting mice and birds. Kelemvor’s holy hour was not until evening…

…plenty of time to contemplate what she wanted to say.

\------------------------------------------------------

Rhaine waited until the nave cleared after sunset to voice her thoughts to her patron; the Chosen did not wish an audience for this particular petition, and though they would have scrambled to obey her, she would not request that her brothers and sisters clear the room for the sole purpose of granting her a private moment to pray for guidance. Besides, there were side chapels designated especially for such.

No, instead she was patient and bided her time, waiting for what felt like the right moment.

At last, when the temple’s main chamber had emptied of all souls save her own, Rhaine slowly approached the altar on soft-slippered feet, barely making a sound as she traversed the grey marble floor. The altar, too, was crafted from a mixture of black, grey, and white marble – the rectangular base black, the polished slab of its top grey, and each corner adorned with carvings of supplicating angels in white – and it sat at the feet of the statue of Kelemvor that she herself had commissioned. The twenty-foot high effigy towered over her in its alcove behind the altar, the black marble, hooded cloak limned in the ghostly silver light of the moon that shone through the high arched window before which the statue stood. Its adamantine armor shimmered with a green iridescence in the light of the many candles and candelabras at its base, and the mithral death mask and bastard sword shone with mirror-like brightness, stark amidst the darkness of the rest of the figure.

Sighing heavily, Rhaine knelt upon the embroidered cushions before the altar, gazing up at the statue that stared straight ahead, looking outwards over the whole of the nave. When standing before it, she had always felt somewhat small due to its sheer size alone. But in this particular moment, she felt even smaller.

Closing her eyes, she forcibly emptied her mind, focusing upon that sacred presence in her soul. Not just her own power – her state of being as a Favored Soul – but that sliver of true divinity that marked her as Kelemvor’s Chosen. It was her eternal link to him and part of her very self. Finding it was not difficult, and concentrating upon it brought forth those feelings she had always associated with the Lord of the Dead and his temples, only far stronger now than they ever had been…

She felt all-encompassing warmth, like sitting before a blazing fire on a winter night, accompanied by a profound and pervading sense of pure tranquility… as though the entire world had ceased its eternal turning and stood still in deep silence. But there was a strength in that stillness, a power in that serenity, lying just beneath the surface. The quiet was not frail. It was iron-clad.

“My lord,” Rhaine began at last, eyes still closed, and though her voice was a whisper, it sounded as though it echoed within her, resonating within her mind and body, “I beseech you for your wisdom, as my heart has been troubled, and my spirit restless, and I do not know how I might bring peace to both. I am uncertain of how I may serve as your hand in this world with this shroud of darkness clinging to me as it does… and I know not how to cast it off. I humbly ask for your council in this, my lord, if it be your will to grant it.”

Utter silence followed. It was a supplication perhaps more formal in style than their most recent communications, but the Chosen’s level of self-consciousness in that moment did much to affect her delivery. It wasn’t helped when that silence lengthened to an uncomfortable one – first two minutes, then five. The warmth within her did not fade during that time, but neither was she made aware of anything beyond it.

He had not answered. Not directly, at least.

Eyes opening, she let their pleading gaze travel upwards to that silvery death mask. Despite the fact it was just as unseeing as its real counterpart, it was as though the weight of Kelemvor’s stare was behind it all the same, and it settled heavily around her heart. Letting out a long breath, Rhaine bowed her head in that lingering hush before slowly standing and retreating from the altar as quietly as she had approached. Again, she admonished herself for lacking the strength and the wisdom to persevere through this trial.

She felt foolish for having given in to her weakness in such a manner. For further demonstrating her inability to deal with her problems on her own. She briefly wondered if this darkness shadowing her soul was what had delayed him giving her orders. If her incapability of fully moving beyond her past had become an obstacle that had, in fact, interfered with Kelemvor’s plans for her.

If so, he must surely regret Choosing her, now.

Rhaine returned to her chambers, then, self-loathing boiling in her veins. The sight of her old journal on her shelf – the chronicle of her journeys upon the Sword Coast and in Rashemen that she had sealed with Safiya’s scroll – made her sick. More than once, she had thought of dispelling the charm upon it so she could toss it in the fire and watch it burn. No one would care about knowing the truth of her life, anyway; reality was always far too disappointing in comparison to the fanciful tales the bards constructed to entertain the people of Faerûn. Hers was no different.

She resisted the temptation to turn the journal to ash, however, knowing full-well that though the shadows persisted, her anger was fleeting. There was no need to add more to that long list of regrets. Instead, she prepared herself for sleep, quickly undressing and changing into a nightgown – yet another of Ingrid’s creations. Then, crawling into bed, she blew out her bedside lantern and curled into a ball underneath the coverlet, hoping against hope that the morrow would somehow be brighter, and that her shame at herself would ease.

Even though she knew it probably wouldn’t.

\------------------------------------------------------

When Rhaine opened her eyes again, what they saw was not of the waking world.

She found herself standing in a place that she had dreamed of before – a small, persistent dreamscape that had somehow carved itself into a corner of her mind. Even after the events in Rashemen were months past, when she thought her dreamwalking days were long over, her nightly visions were often far more vivid than most others'. Many times, they were still lucid dreams in which every object was as tangible as if it existed in the waking world, and, for their duration, she could talk and laugh and walk and even eat, if the opportunity presented itself, though there was no obvious effect on her outside of the bounds of such a dream.

And it seemed this place in particular was one her mind often returned to when she was experiencing emotional distress.

She currently faced the setting sun at the edge of a massive, sheer seaside cliff, though for as long as she had observed it in dreams past, the sun never dipped any lower than just above the horizon. Thus, both the sky above and the water below were perpetually aglow with hues of rust, magenta, and lavender. A constant breeze whipped her thin nightdress about her form and kept her crimson hair continuously aflutter. No sounds existed save those of the pounding waves far below and the wind through the tall grass around her. Behind her, across countless acres of empty, rolling grassland, sat a dark and ancient forest of gnarled oaks and elms that she hadn’t yet attempted to explore.

It was all very much like the landscape of the Sword Coast near Waterdeep, but long before man, or even elf, had ever set foot there. Indeed, it was as if there was no sentient life in the world but she…

This time, however, that sense did not last long.

She felt it again… that permeating, soothing warmth that spread swiftly from her center throughout her body, as though she’d sunk into a warm bath at the end of a long, hard day. And this time, it was far more powerful than before. The whole dreamscape seemed to still even further than it already was, and the quiet tranquility that followed was…

… _deathly_.

“Two months you have carried your pain, my Chosen. There are few others who would have suffered so long without asking for succor,” a voice broke that silence, its low and velvet-smooth timbre instantly recognizable.

Rhaine gasped aloud as she whirled. There, less than ten paces away, stood Kelemvor himself.

He had never yet manifested in her dreams before. Indeed, she had not seen him at all since meeting him in the City of Judgment over a year previous. His presence in that moment, then, came as a great surprise… though it was not an unwelcome one.

The Lord of the Dead appeared just the same as he had upon his home plane, garbed in full blackened plate and tattered chain, a long and dark hooded cloak that billowed in the wind, and that mask – the gleaming silver death mask that reflected all the colors of twilight upon its perfectly-chiseled and slightly stern visage. Even backed by the black shadow of the forest as he was, his form was somewhat startling amidst the golden-orange glow of the eternal sunset; though he had looked entirely at home upon the Fugue, the stark juxtaposition of his dark figure with his colorful surroundings only emphasized that he was a visitor here, in this idyllic corner of her mind.

And though the eyes of the mask that looked down upon her were closed, his gaze was still very much palpable behind it… and the imagined weight of it she’d felt before his statue was nothing compared to the real thing. Judge of all Damned souls he was, and judgment was indeed what she felt. His words of gentle chastisement did nothing to help that feeling, either, despite the fact she could sense no true ire behind them.

“My lord,” Rhaine began at last, when she finally managed to summon her voice, and she bowed deeply at the waist. When she rose again, however, she promptly crossed her arms atop her chest. Clad in but a thin nightdress as she was, she was not exactly garbed for company. “I…”

“Did not expect a reply from me,” he finished for her, knowing what she was going to say before she spoke the words. “Again you erroneously see yourself as at fault, and this time for the lack of an immediate response to your inquiry. In truth, the answer cannot be addressed in quite the succinct manner required for public circumstances. I would have you converse freely with me here, not merely accept a litany of instructions from my lips to your ears.”

She blinked. It hadn’t occurred to her that holding an actual conversation might have been his preferred method of communication with her all along. Rhaine realized, then, that her own insecurities had severely limited her vision of what was appropriate for her station. Of what her station even _was_. She was not a mere priestess anymore. She was a _Chosen_. Clear and constant communication with her god was paramount, not simply from him to her, but also vice versa.

But she had not thought of conversation. She had only expected orders.

She should have petitioned him sooner. Far, far sooner. And his recent silence had demonstrated just that.

“You have my apologies, my lord,” she replied at length, lowering her gaze. “I admit that it has been difficult coming to terms with… _everything_. If my uncertainties have caused delays…”

“They have not.” He shook his head, the silver mask flashing brilliantly with the movement. “Though I have not approached you with your first task because you are indeed not yet ready for it, it is through no fault of your own. And this brings us to the matter of which you spoke before my altar. The darkness that lingers upon your soul – remnants of the Shadow War and the trial of the spirit-eater.”

“Yes, my lord,” she breathed, forcefully swallowing back the hard lump in her throat. “It… _haunts_ me. I should be past it all. I should be looking to my future with a light heart. These events are long over and yet I can’t stop thinking about them. They will not vacate my mind, no matter how much I try to make them do so.” She shook her head fiercely, hissing in a breath. “I don’t _understand_ , my lord. I was healed. I was… _restored_. And yet part of me still feels broken. _Why_?”

Despite the storm of emotions churning inside of her, it felt strangely good to confess these things to him. As though merely saying the words released some of that terrible poison with each one she spoke. And with every bit of pain that eased, more of that warmth seeped in to replace it.

Kelemvor was silent for a moment before crossing his arms atop his breastplate. “Your body has long been healed of the punishment it endured, yes,” he replied at length, “yet your mind and your soul are still in recovery. You know that scars upon both take much longer to fade than wounds of the flesh, as they are far more complex. They require a different sort of healing – an avenue that you have not pursued because you believe such healing for yourself should come with time alone. But that is not entirely the case.”

Rhaine could feel the gentle touch of sympathy in his tone – a reminder of the strengthened connection between them. It did much to soothe her distress, which in turn allowed her to think more clearly about her circumstances. “I understand, my lord,” she nodded with a sigh, “but what should I have done? What will it take to put an end to this at last?”

He shifted subtly, the flutter of his cloak the only other movement. “You still recall the words Father Gerard spoke to you years ago, do you not?”

She nodded. “Yes, my lord. I do. As if it was yesterday.”

_Trust in Kelemvor… and never lose faith in yourself…_

“Your faith in _me_ has not diminished,” he continued, “and yet your faith in _yourself_ has not fully returned to you. In your efforts to ensure that you are not treated differently than any of your fellow clergymen, you have further undermined your certainty of yourself and your abilities – confidence at which these dark memories have already perpetually chipped since your return from Rashemen. By letting your consciousness focus inwards upon your plight, you have unintentionally sequestered yourself from those very brothers and sisters of whom you insist you remain an equal part… and also slowed the rate of your recovery.”

She pressed her lips together. He was right, of course, as he always was. In keeping to herself so much, she had indeed separated herself from the rest of the clergy both emotionally and physically, creating a growing rift between them despite her desperate attempts to prevent such a rift from happening in the first place.

“I see, my lord,” she replied at length. “My partially self-inflicted isolation has done nothing to help. It was my intention to... well, it doesn’t matter what my intention was, does it?” she amended with a mirthless chuckle. “Evidently, I have approached this entire matter all wrong…”

“You understand your position as my Chosen has resulted in the death of your past, but you have not let it rest properly,” Kelemvor concluded, inclining his head in agreement with her words. “Until you do, you will continue to judge yourself by your perceived failures, endlessly questioning your strength and doubting your ability to guide your comrades. End the silence of your grief. Share in your tales and your dreams with those closest to you,” he instructed. “They need not be made aware of your darkest trials, no. But in order for them, and any future ally, to work effectively alongside you, they must not see you as a distant figure with whom they cannot hope to identify. Your very lives may one day depend on the strength of the bonds of camaraderie between you, and those may only be forged through mutual attention and understanding.

“ _Persevere_ , Rhaine,” he finished firmly. “Cease your hovering between lives, and allow yourself to move on to the next. Remember how you guide the souls of the dead and comfort those of the living… and guide and comfort your _own_.”

And with that, blackness rapidly swirled around the edges of her vision, consuming the dreamscape in an inky void, and she was plunged back into deep slumber.


	2. Renewal

It was late in the morning when Rhaine finally emerged from the rejuvenating darkness that had so sweetly embraced her mind. For the first time in a long, long while, her most immediate thoughts upon stirring awake were not ones of worry or doubt. Instead, she almost enjoyed the lazy swimming of her consciousness from the void-like depths of sleep to the surface of the waking world.

Curling into her soft pillow as she lay on her side, she debated staying there for just a little while longer, even as she saw the bright sliver of light streaming into her room between the heavy drapes of her window. Unless there was an occasion that called for her specific attention, there was no need for her to maintain an official schedule anymore. The acolytes knew better than to disturb her for anything less than the most important of events or outright emergencies.

It was well known among all those who dwelt in this temple that, as Chosen, Rhaine could do as she pleased, when she pleased. Despite her attempts to maintain a place alongside the members of the clergy, the hard truth was that she was no longer part of that particular hierarchy, even if she desired to remain so. She now stood outside of it entirely.

For someone who appreciated structure, routine, and a clear understanding of one’s particular role within the Church, it was a difficult thing to accept. Truly, as much as she wanted to emphasize her equality among the rest of the Kelemvorites to ease _their_ minds, her own mind had needed easing, as well…

And yet, nothing would change the fact that she was indeed apart from the rest, now.

To find oneself so separated… being cast adrift with no anchor. It was almost like experiencing the death of her family, in a way. She already had so little of one to begin with, she couldn’t bear the thoughts of losing that, too.

Her thoughts wandered back to her dream as she stared into the far shadows of her chambers, and Kelemvor’s words swirled to the forefront of her mind, echoing there:

“ _Remember how you guide the souls of the dead and comfort those of the living… and guide and comfort your_ own.”

Her lips pressed together, forming a thin line. She should have recognized the signs – realized that she was both the departing soul in need of guidance into a new life and the bereaved soul grieving the tragedies of the old, and that she could apply the techniques she had learned for the purpose of helping others to also help herself.

Rhaine let out a long sigh, sitting up in bed and closing her eyes again as she thought. She, of course, knew the Doomguides’ strategies by heart now. For guiding the souls of the dying into the afterlife, one of two of their most important responsibilities, it was absolutely necessary to apply a gentle touch – compassion and understanding were key to comforting the souls of those who were frightened by the approach of death. Those experienced members of the Kelemvorite church knew well that uncertainty was often the greatest cause of such fear.

The selfsame kind of uncertainty she herself possessed about her future.

To combat it, a Doomguide’s goal was to convince the troubled soul of the sureness of the path he or she would walk. A new life did indeed await all spirits beyond the bounds of the Prime, and only those who had truly displeased the gods had a need to fear that life. It was the beginning of a new state of being, when the old was shed in its entirety…

When the old was shed in its _entirety_.

Shed her old life, she must. The spirits of those who could not let go of their old lives in such a manner often lingered on as ghosts or other undead to be put to rest at the Doomguides’ hands – the second of their most important duties.

An attitude of acceptance, then, was what she needed to adopt; and she couldn’t rightly expect either the dying or any lingering ghosts to accomplish it if she herself could not. Just as everyone when they took their final breaths on the Prime, she too had to be satisfied with what was done and let go. Time would not reverse – nothing about her old life could be changed. Everyone regretted. Everyone wished for more. But those regrets and wishes were also a burden anchoring the soul, chaining it to the past and darkening it into a twisted shadow of what it once was. Kelemvor had subtly likened her to one of those ghosts hovering between lives, and she shuddered as she recalled the comparison. That was not what she wished to be, and she refused to let herself remain in such a state.

Yet regrets and wishes were also part of mourning, as was guilt, and thus she simultaneously possessed traits of both the dying _and_ the grieving. Grieving was also as much a natural part of order as death itself was – it was nothing to be ashamed of and certainly unwise to suppress. But just as Doomguides were to assuage the fear of death, so too were they tasked with comforting the bereaved in moving through their grief, and such an endeavor was often more difficult than soothing their passing loved ones…

To give comfort to the grieving, it was important to first understand grief’s power. It could not be stopped, only held back, and doing so was often to the detriment of the mourner. Those who sought the Doomguides for counsel in their heartache were encouraged to speak of their emotions to aid their minds in processing them. It was then the duty of the Doomguide to transform the overwhelming dejection they felt into both a celebration of what was lost and a hope for the future. In a way, acceptance was also the goal of the mourner, but with the added appreciation for the time he or she had left to live…

Many who came to the Kelemvorites for such comfort and guidance did so because they had no others to counsel them. The elderly who lost their children, the children who lost their parents… these were the most frequent visitors to Kelemvor’s serene halls. But for those who yet had family remaining, they were encouraged to seek out those kin for succor as well. Mourning was different for everyone, of course, but it was easier to cope with relatives and even trusted friends than with complete strangers, no matter how well-trained those strangers were in handling it.

For Rhaine, they were all one and the same, and Kelemvor had instructed her to seek them out, just as she herself might have advised the bereaved to do.

Her eyes opened again as her breath came slowly, deeply, and she found that this intense contemplation had put her in a tranquil, meditative state. This, coupled with her blessedly restful sleep, left her feeling revitalized in a way she had not felt in what seemed like ages, and she was at last ready to face the day.

Even as the Chosen tossed back the coverlet and rose from her bed to complete her morning routine and dress herself, however, she yet considered what her god had told her – particularly how he had linked the necessity of opening up to those around her with building the important connections with those who could provide her aid in times of need. How trust between companions was often vital for survival.

 **“** _Your very lives may one day depend on the strength of the bonds of camaraderie between you…_ ”

She frowned as the words resounded in her mind. How well she knew it. She remembered as though it were yesterday how Black Garius had tried to force her friends to turn on her in the Vale of Merdelain – how he had tempted them with honeyed words. One had already succumbed to the foul Reaver’s promises, though she understood afterwards that it had been due to an unfortunate and inexorable desire for self-destruction. In that moment, she had briefly feared what might come, although she was ultimately relieved to see that none of the others were keen on betraying her.

But what if she had not worked to foster the friendships between them before that moment? Had not spent those long nights before hearth and fire discussing issues deeply personal to all of them?

Things could have turned out very, very differently, indeed. And Kelemvor was warning her that her self-isolation could also be to her detriment in ways she had perhaps only narrowly escaped before.

At that, a certain determination rose within her, bringing with it a sudden surge of confidence.

She _would_ persevere, as he had instructed her to do.

In essence, she knew she needed to alter her outlook of this whole situation and renew the initial excitement – _exhilaration_ – she had experienced when she had first been given her new life.

Thus, she silently assured herself that she wasn’t cast adrift at all… she had her _freedom_. Rigorous structure could, of course, be as burdensome as it was comforting – and that burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She was not lost, but _liberated_.

And her home wasn’t just this temple, no. It was _any_ temple of Kelemvor’s. In all halls, both great and small, that bore his symbol upon their doors or their windows or their banners, she would be welcome.

Moreover, she hadn’t lost her family in any way. Her role in it had merely changed. She was the eldest sibling, now, charged with protecting and teaching the younger ones… living as an example for them to follow. _She_ would be the one they ran to for counsel, the one they sought for guidance.

And as for her own guide… now she had only one. The Great Guide.

But he was the only one she needed.

She sighed heavily again, washing her face and combing through her wavy scarlet mane at her vanity before moving to her wardrobe to exchange her nightdress for a black chemise and underdress. Both garments were halter-necked to allow proper space for her wings, secured closed by way of two buttons at the back of her neck – simple enough that she needed no assistance to dress herself, a convenience that she greatly appreciated. The chemise was of lightweight linen and the underdress of satin, the latter article sporting a thick band of shining bronze brocade around the throat, trimmed in thin strips of black lace, with a sash of emerald green silk serving as a belt at her waist. Around her arms, fastening about her biceps and looping securely at her middle finger, went fake sleeves of the same black satin as the underdress, so that when worn under her outer robe, it would appear as though she was wearing one solid piece – again an invention of the clever Ingrid, who had explained that it was much easier to fashion a dress with space enough for wings when she didn’t have to worry about sewing proper sleeves to the body.

Overtop this underdress went the robe itself. She possessed several colors of each of these clerical garments, both formal and informal in style, as insisted upon by Ingrid: mostly somber ones as the uniform of her Church demanded. For today’s ensemble, she chose a simple robe of deep chocolate brown. All of her robes, regardless of the color, were made of heavy, yet finely woven wool, with asymmetrical bell-like sleeves that ended at the bend of her elbow in front but flowed to her knees behind. The collar of the robe was wide at the shoulders and dipped low in the back like her underdress, though it attached to the top of the undergarment with more buttons to keep it from sliding off. When secured at the waist with its black brocade belt, the neckline formed a broad _V_ , revealing the shining satin of the underdress beneath – a striking backdrop for the holy amulet that rested just above her heart.

Finally, she pulled a matching brown wool cloak from her wardrobe, lined with the same black satin as her underdress, and pulled it about her shoulders, securing it at her collarbones with a bronze brooch. The flowing fabric settled in the space between her shoulder blades, gathering a little but not uncomfortably so when her wings were relaxed. Indeed, she could _almost_ fold those feathered limbs underneath the cape if she so chose, tucking them in on themselves; it was a move she found herself making often in the past six months or so, whether to navigate through tight spaces without bumping into anything or to simply delay the inevitable stares in public.

As she looked upon herself in her brass-framed standing mirror, then, she realized she had done just that, scrunching her wings tightly next to her back. A frown pulled at her red lips, and she could almost _feel_ Kelemvor’s disapproval. Taking in a breath, then, she forced herself to relax, those raven-feathered wings easing themselves out from under the curtain of her cloak once more.

_Do not hide what you are._

She was a Chosen. Though her wings were a gift given to her before such a title, they were yet another sign of the Lord of the Dead’s favor. Part of her new life. And they were here to stay.

Huffing out a breath, she let her gaze drift over the rest of her raiment and nodded her satisfaction. Taken all together, the outfit looked at first glance almost identical to the hooded robes of the rest of the clergy. Only Rhaine and Ingrid were aware of the intricacies of the garments underneath that allowed her to maintain such an appearance.

It was typical of the Kelemvorites to wear their hoods up even indoors, symbolizing both the mysterious and solemn nature of their god and also the stance that their business was eternal; for most, there was hardly a casual moment to be found in their busy schedules, and the way they wore their uniforms reflected this. Yet, Rhaine herself decided against such a practice this day. Wearing her hood down, her hair loose about her shoulders, made her more visible to the others, and as such was emblematic of her desire to open herself up to her comrades.

It was too easy to hide in the shadows of those dark cowls.

Shaking her head to clear it of her heavy thoughts, she took one last opportunity to straighten her garb before donning the same dark slippers she’d worn the previous evening and turning away to tidy her chamber.

Unlike the rooms on the lower levels, the stone walls of Rhaine’s bedchamber were covered with richly-stained wainscoting, mahogany wood paneling stretching from floor to ceiling to help preserve the warmth from the fireplace. The bottom third of the walls bore smaller rectangular frames of intricate and decorative molding spaced evenly around the room, while the top two thirds possessed the same, simply on a larger scale. Within the bounds of the larger frames hung tapestries to further hold in the heat of the small hearth. These wall-hangings were mostly a plain, dark grey, borders of elegant, intertwining vines in silver and gold woven around the edges.

The floor, also of dark-stained hardwood, had been adorned with rugs that matched the tapestries, and the thick-paned, arched windows were draped with heavy, charcoal velvet curtains that were managed with silver tassels. It was these she currently opened and tied back, allowing copious amounts of midday sunlight to spill into the otherwise shadowy chamber. It stretched across her bed in warm beams, illuminating the rumpled sheets and coverlet from her sleep. Rhaine quickly set about neatening these bedclothes, straightening the crisp white sheets and the charcoal grey bedspread. The latter was a heavy thing, the outer layer woven with a damask pattern that shimmered where the light touched it – fully capable of holding in warmth in the coldest of Sword Coast winters. Between it and the drapes and canopy around the wooden four-poster bed, matching those upon the window, the Chosen had never once been cold at night.

She had not asked for such accommodations, of course. They had been foisted upon her mere days after her promotion. This chamber had, in fact, formerly belonged to the High Father, before he promptly and permanently relocated himself to the second-floor library next door, setting the whole temple into a frenzy to move the books housed within to some other appropriate spot. Rhaine had not been able to say no, and what belongings she had stored in her room were carted from that modest cell up to the second floor without delay.

Thus, the Church’s new Chosen had been given what they deemed more suitable living quarters with furnishings that were just shy of lavish, even approaching noble quality, yet stopping just short of it. The lack of gilding and overly-elaborate ornamentation ensured it remained tastefully appropriate and typical of Kelemvorite décor – somewhat austere, yet also sophisticated.

Still, it felt a bit much sometimes. Rhaine was not accustomed to the amount of space it allowed her, and at times the chamber felt as though it would swallow her up.

As she looked around the room one final time, hovering near the door, this threatened to be one of those days. Yet she would not allow herself to be dragged back into her darker thoughts, and as soon as she was satisfied that the temple custodians would have an easy time keeping after her quarters in her absence, she turned and departed at last.

\------------------------------------------------------

After stopping by the dining hall for a quick late breakfast of fresh bread and fruit, Rhaine headed to her first official destination of the day – Father Dunstan’s quarters. His office and room was on the opposite side of the temple from her own, accessed by the same balcony that ringed the interior gardens and practice yard. Indeed, all the quarters of the upper-level priesthood were located on this second level, with more spacious accommodations than the rest of the clergy.

The morning was a lovely one – bright and pleasantly warm with an almost cloudless sky above, and the birds happily chirped away in the trees of the garden that stretched upwards nearly to the stone balustrade. The Chosen took her time strolling along the pathway, breathing in the fresh air and listening to the life beyond the temple.

Then, finally stopping before the carved wooden door that marked Dunstan’s personal chambers, she lifted a hand and gently rapped upon the polished surface.

“Enter,” came the muffled reply beyond.

Smiling, Rhaine pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, the distinct and heady scent of the temple’s incense greeting her nostrils. She blinked a bit as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, the door softly shutting behind her. Once her vision readapted to the low lighting, she saw Dunstan standing behind his desk, leaning both hands against the edge of it as he examined several documents that were spread out across the top. At one corner, curled up atop a thick tome, was one of the older temple cats – a great, fluffy grey tomcat with one ear torn and a scar across the bridge of his nose. Said cat stared at her with bright yellow eyes as she took a few steps forward, the tip of his tail twitching in interest, though he made no other movement.

It was at that moment that Dunstan finally glanced up from his work. Upon seeing Rhaine standing there, he smiled broadly, a smile she mirrored. Father Dunstan, her mentor and father figure, was a man who had seen more than forty winters, and his age was evident in the deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the growing patches of grey in his thick but close-cropped brown beard. His hair was also streaked with grey, though it was currently hidden by his hood. He wore robes of a similar style and hue to Rhaine’s, his sword belted at his side.

“Rhaine,” he greeted her warmly, straightening as he gestured for her to enter properly. “It is good to see you. Is there something that you need?”

“I…” she paused only briefly before barreling onwards, shoving aside any uncertainties. “I need to speak with you, if you have the time to spare. About the Shadow War. And of Rashemen.”

At that, Dunstan’s brow rose, his gaze meeting hers. Then, a moment later, the corner of his lips twitched beneath his beard, and he nodded slowly. “I was wondering when you would come to speak with me about that.”

She felt her own eyebrows furrow in response to such words. “You knew I needed counsel on my past?”

He chuckled, gathering the papers together and returning them to the larger stack of parchment near where the tomcat yet sat. “As if your withdrawn nature and increased silence as of late hasn’t been an indication… I’ve known you since you were a young teen. Of course I sense when you need counsel.” His smile returned once more, gentle as it always was, and he added, “Chosen you may be, but you will always be as a daughter to me, Rhaine. And a father’s instinct, once gained, never fades.”

At that, she smiled again, briefly glancing away as she was momentarily reminded of similar words from her old foster father – one who, in truth, did not know her much at all, despite having raised her from infancy. Dunstan, on the other hand, knew her far better despite meeting her later in life, but it was not something that bothered her. In truth, it was a great comfort to her to know that someone understood her so well. So few had ever honestly tried…

“Thank you, Father,” she replied at length, the title possessing a double meaning. “In truth, I have waited far too long to speak of the things that have been haunting my mind as of late.”

“Then speak of them now, and release your burden.”

Rhaine swallowed heavily, closing her eyes as she gathered her thoughts. So much wanted to come out all at once that it was difficult to order it all properly.

“I wonder how I can be what my lord wishes me to be, to serve him as I should when I…” she suddenly opened her eyes once more, “when I have demonstrated such terrible lapses in judgment in the past. Such… inability to make the right decisions when they needed to be made – that cannot be the hallmark of a Chosen, Dunstan!” She shook her head fiercely, her hand slicing the air. “I lost so many during the Shadow War when I did not anticipate the dangers that sent them to their graves… did not speak or act when I should have done so far sooner. I failed to protect them because I did not make the right decision at the right time.

“And then in Rashemen,” she continued, turning and pacing towards the wall before whirling back again, “I allowed myself to violate our god’s laws – convinced myself it was what I had to do – in order to save the world from Myrkul’s terrible curse, yes, but I cannot deny it was also to save myself. Even if Kelemvor forgave me, even if he told me he understood the circumstances behind it all… the guilt for such infractions still haunts me, day and night! If I could justify it so easily then, would I do so with such ease again?” Again she shook her head, slowly this time. “Those kinds of choices are not what a proper leader of our faith should be making. And yet,” she tossed her hands in the air, letting them slap her legs as they dropped again, “a leader I am, somehow. Given the greatest power any of our faith have ever been given. And I do not trust myself with it, Father. I do not see how I can be what I need to be when I am obviously so… so… _flawed!_ ”

Dunstan cocked his head at her, expressionless and silent for a long moment before finally replying, “You know that Lord Kelemvor would not have Chosen you if he doubted your ability to wield such power appropriately – to complete the duties expected of you. The gods never give such a boon lightly. You know _he_ knows precisely what you believe about yourself and more besides, but that did not deter him from Choosing you. Tell me… do you doubt the wisdom of his decision?”

She sighed heavily, putting her head in her hands. “No, Father, never him. But I do doubt _myself_. The truth is that I am absolutely _terrified_ of disappointing him,” her voice, though quiet, was thick with emotion, “more than anything else in this world.”

At that, he smiled gently. “And that, my Rhaine, is a good thing.”

Dunstan slowly meandered around his desk then, ultimately stopping in front of it and leaning back against the front edge before glancing away from her, warm brown eyes staring intently into the darkness of the far corner. The silence that had settled around them was heavy, almost pressing down upon the Chosen’s shoulders, but she did not break it. Thus far, divulging such burdensome thoughts to Dunstan hadn’t helped as much as confessing her frustrations to Kelemvor had…

“I understand what it is like to doubt yourself, so,” he began at length, “to question everything about yourself – your competence, your worth.” He paused, glancing up at her. “I never told you what made me join this Church, did I?”

Her brow furrowed. “No, as far as I remember, you didn’t.”

He nodded once, eyes drifting away again. “Before Kelemvor rose to power, I was a Helmite. I served the Watcher even as I served as a watchman and healer at my home of Secomber. I had a good life. A family. A beautiful wife and daughter. And I was happy.

“But then, one terrible day, the Godswar came,” he visibly swallowed, “and it was during this war that my wife and daughter both took ill. A terrible fever that no common remedy could cure. But I could not cast spells properly because of how wild magic had become, and that selfsame crisis for all healers had caused a shortage of potions and ingredients with which to make them.

“So the Time of Troubles went on and on… and all the while my family wasted away before my very eyes.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “The gods walked the earth, their avatars wreaking chaos and working miracles alike. But I cared not. Because everything that I held dear was fading away, slipping through my fingers like water. And I was powerless to stop it.”

Silence returned, and Dunstan closed his eyes for a few breaths before at last continuing, “They died before the war ended. Before magic returned to my hands and the gods returned to their thrones. And for ten years afterwards, I was Faithless.”

At that, Rhaine’s eyebrows arced high. She had never in her life believed that Dunstan was once a man without faith. He had always seemed so strong with it, so full of conviction…

“In that time, I hated the gods,” he went on, gaze meeting hers with a startling sharpness. “All of them, for what they did. For their pride that caused such disasters to sweep across Faerûn like a wildfire. For taking everything that I loved from me. I was convinced that none were worthy of worship. But I also hated myself, because I felt that I should have been able to protect my family – even from the gods themselves, if needed. I knew even then that it was an unrealistic expectation, of course, but I felt that way all the same. Because it had been my duty to be the guardian of my wife and daughter. And I failed them.”

Closing his eyes again, he let out a long and heavy sigh through his nose. “But then, one day, a stranger passing through town saw me paying my respects at my family’s graves. After a few moments of watching me silently, he asked if they were kin, and I replied that they were… that they had been my wife and daughter. And then he told me he followed the new god of the dead, and he asked me if I would allow him to bless their graves, to honor and protect them.

“I remember I felt utterly dumbfounded at the question. I had known of priests of Myrkul, and even Cyric after him, and such words had never fallen from their lips. So I asked him if he followed Cyric, and he told me no – Cyric had moved to a different sphere, and another had usurped the throne of the dead. It was then he informed me that the new god’s name was Kelemvor, who sought to bring peace to the hearts of the grieving and whose clergy had been designated guardians of the dead.

“To hear such a thing was astonishing. It was… _revolutionary_ ,” Dunstan stressed, standing straight, “and through that man I found my new calling. He pointed me here, and here was where I found my faith again. A new faith… and a new _life._ ”

A wry smile flickered across his lips. “But despite this new life, my past continued to haunt me, of course. I had a new family of sorts, albeit a young one. A vulnerable one. And I was sincerely afraid of losing it, especially to some blunder of mine. I found myself checking and double-checking almost everything I did all day long, paranoid I would forget something critical somewhere. I lived like this for months. But then…

“…then, High Father Gerard called me to his chambers one day to discuss a mission of grave importance,” he winked, “and we both know what happened after that.”

She nodded knowingly, a smile pulling at her own lips. “And you undertook that mission, despite your fears.”

“I did. And believe me, I was very much afraid,” Dunstan replied. “Like you, I greatly feared disappointing Kelemvor with my self-perceived incompetence. But Gerard insisted I was to be the one to quest for the ‘Star in the North’, and so I did. Through all the twists and turns and all the dead ends I met, I told myself to trust Kelemvor. The Great Guide hadn’t yet steered me wrong, after all.” He paused, chuckling a little. “And then, after I found you at last and knew you were the one I was really sent for, I trusted _myself_ again.”

Striding forth, then, Dunstan put his hands on her shoulders. “Trust Kelemvor to know who you _really_ are, Rhaine. A woman who was as inept at leadership as you believe yourself to be would never have been Chosen by _any_ god, much less our Judge. Hindsight is always clearer than foresight,” he reminded her, “and I assure you, it was how you behaved in the moment, not how you viewed your actions after the fact, that earned you the honors you possess today.”

At that, the Chosen closed her eyes, almost deflating as she sighed heavily. She knew he spoke truth, no matter how difficult it was to accept… but accept it, she must.

When she opened them again, she found he was standing with his arms held open invitingly, a warm smile on his face that could not be ignored. Chuckling softly, she moved into them, and Dunstan embraced her tightly, resting his chin atop her head.

“You’re so hard on yourself, my dear,” he said at length, squeezing her a little tighter. “So critical and harsh. And though it is good to set a high standard for yourself, I fear you have set yours so high it is unreachable by any mortal, Chosen or not. As someone who has metaphorically lashed themselves a thousand times for inaction and ineptitude and regretted it later, I would ask that you be a little kinder to yourself in the future.”

She sighed again into the front of his robe, hugging him back fiercely.

“I’ll try Father. I’ll try.”

\------------------------------------------------------

After she finally left Father Dunstan’s quarters, Rhaine found her feet slowly taking her to the library. She hadn’t precisely intended to go there, but once she opened the double-doors and stepped within, she knew it was exactly where she needed to be. The comforting smell of the books greeted her the moment she entered, mingling with the scents of incense and wax, and she closed her eyes contentedly for a moment as she inhaled it deep into her lungs.

The new temple library was, in fact, what had been strictly the legal documents archives before the tomes from the second floor had become in need of a new home. Through some clever rearranging and the acquisition of new shelving, however, the clergy had managed to relocate the temple’s growing book collection to this chamber, which also housed the stairs to the belfry tower at the rear. Sunlight streamed through the high windows on the walls above, but the shelves were so high and so filled with books and scrolls that it was still fairly dark within, only the light of the candelabras standing at the end of every bookcase pushing back the shadows at the heart of the room.

During the day, there were few visitors to the archive, as most acolytes were yet in instructional classes and the clergy was busy elsewhere in the temple’s halls. One almost permanent fixture in this veritable heaven of books, however, was Ilmvyr, whom Rhaine almost immediately spotted at the end of a shelf near the eastern wall, holding a thick tome in hand.

The drow wizard was garbed in heavy black robes that were lined with purple – a color scheme that invoked more the Church of Shar than that of Kelemvor, and yet it was his personal preference… one that not even the High Father dared to challenge him over. His hood was up, leaving most of his face in deep shadow, though the ends of his long white hair emerged from overtop both shoulders and shone brightly in the candlelight. What flesh of his face was visible bore a distinct blue tint to it, lighter in hue compared to those obsidian complexions she’d witnessed during her tenure at the Underdark settlement of Sel Sreen'aur…

“Ah, Lady Rhaine. How fortunate you are here. Do you have a moment to speak?” Ilmvyr asked when he glanced up, returning the book to its place and crossing his arms in the typical drow gesture of peace; this move, coupled with his cordial inquiry, somewhat clashed with the faint glow of his scarlet eyes in the darkness of his cowl and the almost menacing air about his form. She knew, however, that this was largely a matter of simple appearance, which Rhaine was almost certain he purposefully cultivated in order to keep nosy acolytes out of his business.

“Certainly, Brother Ilmvyr,” she replied as she approached, offering a warm smile of greeting in return. “How may I be of assistance?”

“It is only a small matter, I assure you, but one that is important to my studies. You see, I have been pondering the possible alchemical properties of your divinely-granted wing feathers,” he gestured to them with a slender finger, “and I was wondering if I might be allowed a sample to examine more closely?”

“A… ‘sample’?” she repeated with a blink, going over the question again in her head to make sure she understood his intentions correctly. “You want to pluck a feather from my wings?”

The drow shook his head a little. “A slight correction to your use of terminology, my lady: I would like _you_ to remove a feather – or two, perhaps, if you can spare them – of your own volition and preferably with no pain to your person.” His lips twisted into a smirk. “I may be new to this flock, but I am not fool enough to dare seize such a prize with my own hands.”

Her brow rose. “You want it now?”

His smirk morphed into a toothy grin. “Should I grant you privacy, Chosen?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said with a sigh.

Curling her wings forward so she could more easily access them, the Doomguide gently ran a hand over first one limb, and then the other. Even after they’d been part of her person for months now, she could still scarcely believe these raven-like wings belonged to her. Still, she’d had them long enough to know that even everyday activities took their toll on the delicate feathers; just simple sleeping was enough to loosen them. Thankfully, any feathers that had shed, she’d managed to pick up and discard before someone compared her to the temple cats – the last thing she wanted was for the caretakers to have to sweep up after her…

Also of note was the fact that any feathers she did shed grew back with astonishing rapidity. They were indeed self-replenishing, and so missing a handful at any given time would not be a major loss.

At last, after a moment or two, she found one that only required the smallest tug to release itself from its follicle.

“Aha,” she murmured with a wry smile, pulling a slender feather from one wing as she returned them to their natural position. “Here we are.” She proffered it to the wizard, then, holding it by the shaft. It was a good six inches long and visually perfect, despite being a lost quill.

“Wonderful,” Ilmvyr replied, taking the feather from her rather gingerly. “Ah, but it is exquisite. Almost a pity to waste it so, but proper research often demands great sacrifices of its practitioners. I certainly hope what I have in mind is successful, otherwise I might have to inquire after replacements…”

Her lips pressed together. “I am _not_ a walking ingredient supplier, Brother Ilmvyr.”

“I would not dream of thinking such things.”

The cheeky grin he sported whilst he tucked the feather into the interior pocket of his robes, however, told her otherwise…

Holding this conversation reminded Rhaine of something she had been meaning to ask the drow, and, seizing upon the opportunity, the Chosen then inquired, “Might I ask a favor of you in return?”

“Of course, my lady,” he answered with a slow incline of his head. “I am always at your service.”

She glanced away for a moment. “A friend of mine, an Eilistraeen, taught me a bit of Drowic while I was in the Underdark for a time, but I fear it is getting rusty from lack of use.” Returning her gaze to him, she asked, “Would you mind, perhaps, tutoring me on occasion? When your duties allow for it, of course?”

“‘Mind’?” Ilmvyr repeated, his tone one of borderline incredulity. “My lady, I would be _honored_ to be your teacher. I will, of course, _make_ the time for such lessons. Perhaps I’ll even teach you to play _sava_ on the side. It is a delightful game. Keeps the mind sharp. No better time to drill you on vocabulary.”

She smiled. “I welcome the chance to learn. Perhaps it can help me keep my mind off of… a great many things.”

“Or give you an opportunity to speak of them?” Ilmvyr added knowingly.

The wizard was far too clever for his own good.

“Yes,” she replied at length, nodding and smiling slightly in agreement. “That, too.”

Now she knew without a doubt that her steps had taken her to the library for a reason.

\------------------------------------------------------

It was not long after highsun when Rhaine was notified that the blade she had requested be made for Freya was at last finished and had been delivered to the temple armory. Eager to see what the young woman would think of this new way of approaching her training, the Chosen immediately set about retrieving the sword. She inspected it carefully, making sure it was indeed to her specifications, and was ultimately pleased with the simple yet elegant design. She then wrapped it up in a plain cloth and headed to the practice yard where she knew Freya would be engaged in exercises that afternoon.

The interior courtyard of the temple served as a combination of practice yard and private gardens. The half of the courtyard closest to the nave, flat and green, was a large open space where anyone could engage in practice routines with or without partners. A few dummies had been set up on one side, and the same number of archery targets on the other. Past this half of the courtyard, beyond a fountain, was the private gardens where the clergy could rest and meditate. It was not, however, what supplied the flowers and herbs for ritual and ceremonial use – those were instead cultivated in a much larger garden and greenhouse set off of the west wing.

Freya, a tall woman but willowy thin, was garbed in a simple quilted arming vest and breeches, her golden-blonde hair braided into two pigtails that danced with every movement. Currently armed with a wooden longsword, she hacked away at a practice dummy, her friend, Bjorg, watching a few paces behind her with one of the temple cats cradled in her arms. Bjorg wore a simple brown robe with the hood up, though her chestnut ponytail was draped over one shoulder and currently served as an amusing toy for the fluffy calico she held.

“Sister Freya?” Rhaine called once within earshot, catching the girl’s attention.

Immediately, the thin slip of a woman lowered her practice weapon, whirling towards where Rhaine was approaching from the peristyle that ringed the courtyard. “Yes, Lady Chosen?”

“Come,” she replied, smiling as she beckoned to her, “I have something I wish to give to you.”

“Give? To… to me?” Freya blinked and glanced to Bjorg, evidently astonished at the prospect. Her friend merely shrugged and jerked her head to where Rhaine stood waiting.

The Doomguide’s smile only widened, and once Freya finally neared, she laid her gift flat across both palms and proffered the wrapped weapon to the young acolyte. “I do believe you will find this more to your liking.”

Freya was tentative in reaching for it, gingerly taking it out of Rhaine’s hands. Carefully, she unwrapped the cloth to reveal the bastard sword and scabbard beneath. Her eyes widened, and as she let the wrapping fall to the ground and slowly pulled the sword from its sheath, they widened even more. The bright blade - silver with only the slightest hint of pale blue – shone in the midday sun, flashing fire as its polished surface caught the light.

“Mithral,” the Chosen explained. “Since steel seems a bit heavy for your hands. I thought perhaps this would make your trials seem a bit easier… and your goals more within your reach, as well.”

Freya gaped, staring at the sword as though she couldn’t believe it was real. “It’s… it’s…”

“… _beautiful_ …” Bjorg supplied, her tone just as awed.

“It is _not_ the weapon of a proper Doomguide,” Rhaine clarified, “but it will defend you all the same. And if it makes your path to your objective smoother, it will have served its purpose.”

Freya visibly swallowed, half-bowing to her. “Thank you! Thank you so much, Lady Chosen!”

Rhaine’s smile widened, and she gestured to the practice dummy Freya had been attacking earlier. “Go on then, Sister. Give it a try.”

Grinning, Freya set the scabbard aside and then fell into a ready position facing the dummy. Rhaine and Bjorg moved a little out of her way, and then watched as she began executing a practice routine that had always given her great difficulty with a regular steel bastard sword… or even merely its wooden imitation. All the while, Freya’s grin only grew wider and wider, her eyes shining with emotion.

And it was then, as the young woman became engrossed in testing her skills with her new weapon, that Rhaine quietly retreated into the peristyle once more, her own heart lightened from the knowledge that she had gently nudged the girl a little closer to her dream.

\------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, after supper and prayers, Rhaine had just returned to her quarters to contemplate the events of the day when she heard a knock on her chamber door.

Well, a knock that sounded distinctly more like something banging into the surface repeatedly than a hand rapping upon it.

“One moment,” Rhaine answered, crossing her chambers before opening the door a crack.

There stood Sister Ingrid, a small wooden washtub full of steaming water in her hands and a grin plastered to her face. Before Rhaine could even sign anything to the girl, she had pushed past her into her chambers and headed straight for the foot of the Chosen’s bed. Rhaine watched, blinking, as Ingrid then promptly set the tub down upon the floor and turned about, signing, _“Time for your foot bath, Lady Rhaine!”_

 _“A foot bath?”_ the Chosen signed back, her incredulousness writ on her countenance as she let her door fall shut again behind her.

_“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”_

_“But I didn’t request one…”_

Ingrid shook her head. _“You don’t request foot baths, you need them. So I brought one.”_

Without waiting for a response, the girl then moved to where Rhaine’s heavy standing mirror stood near the wardrobe and began walking it to a position directly in front of the foot of the bed. All the while, the Doomguide herself continued to watch Ingrid completely take control of her private chambers, an equal mixture of surprise and confusion – accompanied by a dash of curiosity – freezing her to the spot. Why did Ingrid think she needed a foot bath, of all things?

Once the Illuskan appeared satisfied with the arrangement of Rhaine’s furniture, she waved a beckoning hand to the Chosen and gestured to the end of the bed. _“Come on. Sit here and take off your shoes, and let me handle the rest.”_

Rhaine took a breath. It was obvious that Ingrid was insistent on this, and she (as well as the majority of the rest of the clergy who dwelled in the temple) had an incredibly difficult time telling the girl no. Especially when all of them knew she had their best interests at heart with everything she did. Thus, the Doomguide found she could not refuse her – and she had to admit, the prospect of indulging in a simple luxury such as this was indeed rather tempting, even if she _hadn’t_ requested it…

Heaving a sigh, Rhaine at last nodded her acquiescence, moving to the end of the bed and perching on its edge before kicking off her temple slippers. Ingrid bent to collect the soft-soled suede shoes, toting them to the wardrobe as if to dissuade Rhaine from changing her mind, before returning to push the tub to a more accessible position. The Chosen could then see the rune-inscribed stone resting on the linen-lined bottom that heated the water from within.

She glanced up. Ingrid, obviously waiting expectantly, put her hands on her hips and tilted her head in the tub’s direction as if to say _“Well?”_

Chuckling, Rhaine then picked up the skirts of her garments, pulling them up to her knees, and eased her feet into the water. It was a pleasant warmth, not too hot, and oddly soothing despite the fact her feet weren’t tired or cold in the least. Pinning the skirts beneath her thighs so she didn’t have to hold them, Rhaine happened to glance up again, and when she did, she noticed Ingrid bore a startled look on her face.

“ _What?_ ” she signed quickly, suddenly a little concerned she might have overlooked something important somewhere.

Ingrid shook her head back and forth as if to clear it. _“It’s just you… you’re…”_ she paused her signing, as if struggling to think of the right word, _“smooth!”_ She then pointed at Rhaine’s bare legs.

At that, the Doomguide’s mouth formed an _O_ as she realized Ingrid likely wasn’t aware of elves’ hairlessness upon their bodies, nor that it was a trait half-elves could inherit as well. Smiling her amusement, she nodded, signing back simply, _“Elf blood.”_

 _"Oh yes, of course, silly me."_ Ingrid responded with a sheepish smile, a slight pink tinting her cheeks. _"I don't know much about elves, and my parents aren't very fond of them."_

Rhaine nodded again in understanding, more slowly this time. _“Ah, I see. No need to be ashamed, Ingrid. I’m certainly not offended by your curiosity.”_ Smiling slightly, she added, _“As a matter of fact, it came as surprise for me, too… that I was so visually different from the other girls I grew up with.”_

Ingrid inclined her head. _“I can understand that.”_

It was then the girl fished out a small flask from a pouch that hung at her belt, unstoppering it and kneeling to pour a bit of the contents into the tub. Just a small splash was all she added before putting the cork back in and straightening. Almost immediately upon hitting the warm water, the faint scent of lavender swirled upwards with the steam. Rhaine smiled a little, swishing the oil around in the water with one foot.

After stowing away the flask again, Ingrid gestured to the bed. _“Do you mind if I sit, too?”_

_“Not at all.”_

A broad grin spread across Ingrid’s features, and she quickly moved to the side of the bed before plopping herself atop it, bouncing both of them when she landed. Rhaine understood why the Illuskan had moved the mirror, then, as she caught Ingrid’s signing to her in its surface, _“Springy!”_

Before Rhaine could inquire as to the reasoning behind Ingrid’s insisted foot bath, however, the girl very suddenly appeared mightily distracted, particularly by the presence of the pair of ebon wings that were currently half-draped on the coverlet in front of her. In fact, she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of them, and Rhaine sensed the question coming before it was ever asked; in just a few months’ time, she had already been around enough other curious folk of all ages to know exactly what was on the Illuskan’s mind.

With a wide gaze of almost child-like wonder, Ingrid finally looked up and signed in the mirror. _“Your wings are even prettier up close!”_ She paused. Then, _“May I touch them?”_

The Chosen couldn’t help but heave a little sigh as the anticipated question finally came out, but she relented with a nod. _“Yes, you may.”_

Perhaps if Ingrid was allowed to satisfy her curiosity regarding her wings, Rhaine reasoned, then the girl wouldn’t find herself quite so preoccupied by them in the future.

At first, even after being given permission, Ingrid seemed a little hesitant. But after a moment or two, she managed to garner her nerve and reached out with one finger outstretched, poking the arch of the wing nearest her. Immediately upon making contact with the feathers there, Ingrid’s finger recoiled, and she made an awkward squeak. Then, eyes widening in obvious delight, she let her hand return, this time more solidly patting the top of the limb.

For Rhaine, it was much like being patted on top of the head – she only barely felt Ingrid’s fingers make contact past the several layers of feathers. The girl, on the other hand, seemed completely enraptured by the texture, lightly running her hand over the same spot with a tentative touch.

 _“They’re so soft!”_ she signed at last, her wide-eyed gaze returning to Rhaine’s in the mirror. _“Can you fly with them?”_

At that Rhaine blinked. That question was one that _wasn’t_ expected.

 _“In truth, I haven’t yet tried,”_ she finally responded, feeling a bit sheepish herself this time. _“I assume that I can. There wasn’t room enough to attempt it when I first received them, and after I returned home, I wasn’t precisely in the mood to draw more attention to myself in such a manner. I suppose I haven’t truly had the opportunity.”_

 _“You should try!”_ Ingrid signed back excitedly. _“Maybe in the courtyard? You must see if you can do it!”_

The Chosen glanced away for a moment, absently swishing her feet around in the warm water. _“Perhaps. We shall see.”_

When she returned her gaze to the mirror, however, she found the girl looking back at her curiously, and Ingrid then signed, _“Are you afraid of it?”_

Feeling her brow furrow a little, Rhaine shook her head. _“Not of flying, per se. More like hitting the ground from a great height…”_

Indeed, few knew that the Chosen of Kelemvor possessed a great fear of falling, something that had only worsened over time, not improved. Heights were, in and of themselves, not a particular issue; it was the threat of being pushed over an edge, losing her footing, dropping a distance that was quite possibly unsurvivable – open places with no opportunity to catch oneself or to grab hold of something for stability. It had taken quite some time for her to realize this fear, but once she understood the signs of it, she had begun to see it for what it was, and part of her couldn’t help but wonder if it was metaphorical as well…

 _“Start small, then,”_ Ingrid suggested, smiling gently as she did so. _“Little heights to get you used to it. Then you can go for bigger jumps when you feel more confident. Just remember that you don’t have to be perfect on the first go. Even birds make mistakes sometimes, and they have to fly to survive.”_

Rhaine chuckled. _“True enough.”_

Silence fell over them for several moments, during which Ingrid absently picked up a few tendrils of Rhaine’s hair and let it fall, repeating this act several times. The Doomguide herself was barely aware of it, having been plunged into deep thought. But then, finally, Ingrid tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention and signed, _“How long has it been since someone plaited this beautiful hair of yours for you?”_

At such an inquiry, Rhaine blinked again. _“Since… I was a child. Before I joined the Church. Perhaps seven or eight years old?”_

Ingrid leaned around her shoulder, looking her in the face with a bewildered expression. _“You never had anyone play with your hair while you were in training? In your time off?”_

Rhaine shook her head. _“Never. I… didn’t really have any friends then, outside of Father Dunstan of course.”_

Ingrid looked even more perplexed, and perhaps slightly offended. _“So you never spent time with other girls, doing each other’s hair and having chats and such?”_

_“No, I didn’t.”_

The Illuskan’s mouth dropped open. _“What is wrong with people? You’re so lovely and kind! Why wouldn’t anyone want to spend that kind of bonding time with you?”_

The Chosen answered with a small smile. “ _My fellow acolytes feared me. And, I suspect, they were jealous of me, as well. I was too different, even then.”_ She chuckled mirthlessly. _“I imagine with what’s happened to me lately, that has only become worse for those of them who remain here. Most are largely gone now, though.”_

Ingrid straightened, something resolute about her features as she signed back in the mirror, _“Well then, Lady Rhaine… may I plait your hair for you?”_

Unable to prevent herself from smiling, the Doomguide replied with a dip of her head _, “Of course you may, Sister Ingrid.”_

The Illuskan grinned widely, almost wickedly. It was then that she jumped up from the bed, moving over to the vanity and picking up Rhaine’s comb before returning to her previous spot (with another bouncy plop atop the mattress, of course). Once settled, her task set before her, Ingrid began brushing with one hand and signing with the other, so quickly Rhaine had to focus to catch what she was communicating. For the next hour, the two did nothing but indulge in what most would call silly gossip – talking about everything and everyone and all recent events, but nothing too serious or deep. All the while, Ingrid braided the Doomguide’s hair, leaving it in place for only a moment before unraveling it and replaiting it in a different style. She did this perhaps a dozen times before finally setting on one updo in particular, grinning again as she finished.

 _“Well, Lady Rhaine, I’m afraid I must leave now,”_ she signed at last, hopping from the bed and fetching a towel to dry the Chosen’s feet with. _“Off to spend a little time with Donovan, you know. But I hope you’ve enjoyed your foot bath and the chat. Feeling relaxed now?”_

Rhaine nodded. _“Very much so.”_ Then, after her feet were dry and Ingrid had slid the washtub out of her way, she continued, _“You have my thanks, Ingrid. Sincerely. You, Freya, Bjorg – even Ilmvyr… you all have been so kind to me, and it means more than you will know. I just thought… you should know that.”_

At those words, a look of surprise swept across Ingrid’s features, and her eyes shone a little as she signed back, _“It means a lot to me too.”_ Then, after a pause, she added, _“Have a good night, my lady.”_

_“And you, Sister Ingrid.”_

And with that, after Rhaine stood to assist her with the door, Ingrid picked up the washtub and departed the Chosen’s chambers at last.

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With Ingrid gone, Rhaine found herself left in heavy silence. The serenity of night had at last fallen over the temple, and she knew many of the elder clergy had already gone to bed. The youngest ones would be well on their way there soon, no doubt exhausted by training and their studies. Only those in between those age groups would remain awake for hours yet, completing what duties that were left for the day, working away in the peaceful quiet that had blanketed the hallowed halls in which they dwelt.

A sigh escaped the Doomguide after a moment, and she found herself wandering barefoot to her vanity, where she perched atop the wooden stool set before it. In the smaller mirror, there, she looked upon herself more closely, examining the reflection before her. Ingrid’s plaiting ability was impeccable – not a single hair had defied the girl’s will, every inch of the Chosen’s crimson mane effectively tamed and braided into a tight twist at the back of her head. No doubt such a style would survive her sleeping on it; after so much effort, she wasn’t about to undo it all.

She felt a small smile tug at her lips, then, but when her eyes flicked downwards to see such an expression on her own face, it seemed almost alien to her. Most of her smiles of late appeared solely on reflex – answers to those sent her way, or given as greetings to others. But smiles that stemmed from her happiness… those had become rare indeed. Yet the events of the day had finally elicited one from her, and as she reflected on them, it remained.

Rhaine had missed the feelings she’d relived that day. It was a kind of camaraderie and trust in those around her she hadn’t experienced since her adventuring days, when everything seemed so much simpler – even if it meant dodging strange extraplanar creatures chasing an equally-strange shard of silver.

She realized, then, that in her distress over the darkest parts of her past, she had forgotten the brightest ones.

What surfaced afterwards in her thoughts was a swarm of those better memories, those she’d swept even farther to the back of her mind than the haunting ones, and with far greater success. When, even as she was being hounded every step by her enemies, she still found little moments with her friends when she could smile, and laugh, and…

A glimmer in the mirror caught her attention, and there, upon her cheek, was a shining trail of dampness glittering in the candlelight. A tear.

She felt it, then. Something beginning to break apart inside of her, little by little… cracks running through it like lines in the earth. All at once, it felt too big to contain any longer, as though she might burst apart at the seams from its sheer enormity. Her throat tightened, her eyes growing hot.

And then, finally, it _shattered_.

That tear had only been the first of many – a veritable deluge followed on its heels, her sobs pouring forth, and she was powerless to stop it. Rhaine bowed forward from the intensity of the emotions overtaking her, ultimately collapsing upon the vanity with her head upon her arms, lacking the strength to keep herself upright. It took everything in her power to prevent herself from keening her anguish aloud and alarming the rest of the temple with her cries. Her body trembled and her heart ached, the pain crashing over her in wave after debilitating wave…

She wept with an intensity she’d never experienced before, even in the City of Judgment when her soul had been most vulnerable. In this moment, she was truly mourning… mourning for the life she could have had if fate had not wrought the path that had been set before her. For everything and everyone she had lost, including parts of herself. For every tragedy she could not stop. For every soul she could not save.

And thus, the Chosen of Kelemvor allowed herself to _grieve_ at last.


	3. Revelations

Well after the following dawn, Rhaine awoke in that same spot – bowed forth with her cheek resting against the wood of the dressing table, her arms draped around her head. Wincing as her eyes fluttered open, she immediately regretted allowing herself to fall asleep in such a position; her lower back ached terribly, and it felt as though the whole side of her face had gone numb. Hissing at the dull pain in her spine as it moved, she straightened slowly in her chair, ultimately glaring at her own reflection in the mirror whilst she rubbed the redness from her cheekbone with one hand.

Still, despite such temporary aches, she felt undeniably better after her hard sleep. More so, even, than she had the day before.

It was a start.

She was no fool. She knew that no miracle had come to pass that made everything brighter from here to eternity, all troubles forgotten. It was the first step on a long, long road to recovery. There was a reason so many cultures of the world observed years’ worth of mourning after the deaths of spouses and family members. For it often took years for a heart to truly heal, and for the dark cloud of grief to lift.

She had only just begun. But she had her god and her Church-family at her side. And with them, she could forge a brighter future for herself.

_Thank you, my lord._

Rising from her chair, the Chosen stretched and yawned, arcing her wings high until their tips brushed the ceiling. She was more than a little pleased she didn’t have to contend with her hair this time, thanks to Ingrid’s handiwork, and completed her morning toilette a little faster than usual, ultimately exchanging her brown robe and cloak for ones of emerald green – even such a simple change in color seemed to lift her mood…

It was then, as she readied herself to depart her chambers to partake of a bit of a late breakfast, that she noticed someone had slipped a bit of parchment under her door. Frowning, she realized she hadn’t heard anyone leave it there; if they’d knocked while she slept, it certainly hadn’t woken her. Moving towards the door, she bent and picked up the folded vellum: a sealed message that bore no identifying marks on the outside, not even the disc of wax that held it shut. There was, however, the slightest hint of a floral perfume that wafted into the air as she disturbed the parchment – not cloying, just barely touching the edge of her senses. Still, it was enough to cause her to frown even more deeply, as it was evident this was not correspondence from within the temple.

Sighing, she slid her finger beneath the seal, breaking it and unfolding it to find an elegantly-penned letter in a neat but swirling script:

_To the Lady Rhaine Alcinea, with the warmest of greetings,_

_Allow me to offer you belated congratulations for your most recent promotion. Your position is one of great honor and befitting a soul who has accomplished such deeds as you have in recent years. I have watched you for some time now, and I must say that I am most impressed and pleased with what I have seen._

_Unfortunately, distant observation, hearsay, and second-hand information often are not accurate representations of the whole of a person, and I am most eager to gain a clearer picture of the third Chosen in this splendorous city of ours – if you will pardon the unintended pun. I do believe it is high time we made proper acquaintances._

_To the point: consider this letter an invitation to visit Blackstaff Tower for afternoon tea, at your convenience. I would be most happy to host you within two hours following highsun this tenday. Simply present my letter with its seal to the door guard (he will know what to do with it), and you will be allowed within._

_I certainly hope you decide to accept._

_Most sincerely,_

_Laeral Silverhand Arunsun_

Rhaine’s eyes widened and her lips parted in shock. An invitation to Blackstaff Tower, from Lady Laeral herself?

Her hands dropped to her sides, one still holding the letter as she simply stood there, processing this astonishing offer. A Chosen of Mystra wished to take the time out of her undeniably busy day to meet with her in person. Had invited her to her home, even.

Rhaine could scarcely believe it. It felt like a completely undeserved honor.

Lifting her hand again, she read the letter over once more, a slow smile of wonderment spreading across her face as she did so. _Of course_ Laeral knew about it all. The Lady Blackstaff was a highly-informed woman, by various means. No doubt the Lady’s curiosity had been piqued, but Rhaine also suspected Laeral would be intensely judging everything she said and did in her presence to gauge how much of an eye she needed to keep on this new Chosen in the city, pleased with her past deeds or not…

Thus, it made the prospects of answering such an invitation as much intimidating as it was exciting. Of course, Rhaine was not at all obligated to answer it – Laeral herself had implied it – but doing so perhaps risked more harm than delivering a poor impression in-person. It was highly likely Lady Laeral also knew the Doomguide was not occupied with a mission at present.

Sighing, Rhaine shook her head to clear it of those thoughts. Dunstan would want to know about this invitation, and perhaps he would also have advice for her on how to properly handle it. Thus, tucking the letter into a pocket inside her robe, she headed for his chambers first, mentally amending her planned schedule for the morning since she wasn’t quite hungry at present.

However, when Rhaine finally reached Dunstan’s office and tentatively pushed open the door, which was cracked a bit this time, she realized he already had a visitor – a middle-aged man garbed in the borderline ostentatious finery typical of up-and-coming Waterdhavian nobility, though she didn’t recognize his face. In truth, she had met little of even the lowest rungs of the upper crust of their society, and she preferred to keep it that way.

It was strange, however, to find such a guest in the temple’s private offices. Such occurrences were rare indeed, as even private meetings were typically conducted in the side wings off of the nave, not in the chambers reserved for the resident clergy.

When her eyes flicked questioningly to Dunstan, whose lips had vanished in a thin line beneath his beard, he very suddenly cracked a wide grin and beckoned for her to enter. “Ah, Sister Rhaine! A more providential timing I’ve never seen. Do come in. I was just explaining to Lord Wynter here our policies regarding outside interference in funerary procedures. Perhaps you would care to elaborate on such details? You know how fuzzy my memory can be…”

The slow wink behind said lord’s back told her much.

“Lord… Wynter?” she repeated slowly as she let the office door fall closed behind her. Her gaze returned to the man, whose countenance was currently a magnificent shade of red-orange that she suspected wasn’t his usual complexion. “You are concerned about-?”

She found herself cut off rather abruptly, however, as he spat, “‘Concerned’ doesn’t begin to accurately describe it! I am _outraged_ , as all Waterdeep should be!”

“Allow me to fill you in on the details,” Dunstan began with a sigh, his expression turning solemn once more as he crossed his arms over his chest, “since our guest here is more inclined to rant than to listen. Lord Wynter intimidated one of the younger acolytes into leading him to someone in authority in this temple so that he might rage to us regarding his disapproval that an elaborate funeral procession is to be held for the late Geroff Millerson at the same date and time as the lord’s summer ball…”

“Which is a deliberate attack on me and an obvious attempt to strike at me even beyond the grave, just as he struck against me at every opportunity that presented itself during life!” Wynter hissed, slamming his fist on the edge of Dunstan’s desk. “Geroff _knew_ of that ball even before he died! I host it _every_ year! And now I learn that he dared to write it in his will that his very _funeral_ should interfere with my interests as well?” He shook his head rapidly, his hands waving wildly. “Everything will be delayed for _hours_ , and _I will not have it!_ ”

“Unfortunately for you, what you will and will not have is entirely irrelevant,” Rhaine replied shortly, she too crossing her arms and one eyebrow rising critically as his attention snapped back to her. “If Geroff Millerson’s last will and testament requests that a public funeral procession be held for him in his honor, then that is precisely what we shall do. We Kelemvorites honor the dead’s wishes as much as is possible, regardless of who disapproves of those wishes and for what reason. And no one, not even you, Lord Wynter, possesses the authority to change that,” she added, her tone darkening. “If you were not aware, we answer to only _one_ authority in this temple, and it is whose statue you passed on the way to this private office. Do not tell me you did not notice it.”

“How dare-”

“Might I also remind you that every temple in this city is an island unto itself in the eyes of the Watch and may govern itself as it so pleases in accordance with the doctrine of its patron,” Rhaine continued, raising her voice as she refused to be interrupted, “and that if you so brazenly trespass in the heart of Kelemvor’s House again, you _will_ be met with our swords.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

Unfazed and unmoving, she met his gaze with no amount of uncertainty in her own. “No. It is a _promise_.”

Obviously outraged by such words, Lord Wynter positively trembled with anger as he reddened again. “I will be certain to pass along your names to the Masked Lords for this!” He hissed again through gritted teeth. “They will know of my ill treatment at your hands!”

At that, Rhaine only smirked. “Don’t forget to add the title of ‘Chosen’ to mine, as I’d like it on any official documents that henceforth refer to my person.”

 _That_ seemed to take the wind right out of the good lord’s sails, as his eyes instantly widened, and his mouth dropped open in a rather undignified manner. But before he could manage to form any sort of reply, Dunstan added pointedly behind him, “I trust you can find your own way out, milord?”

Wynter blinked, his mouth closing abruptly as rage swiftly returned to his countenance, and he offered one last parting glare to Dunstan before he wordlessly stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him so hard the items on the priest’s nearby bookshelf rattled where they sat.

“I doubt that will be the last we hear from him,” he remarked at length, sighing heavily in the disgruntled noble’s wake. “Lord Wynter is married into the Cassalanters. He’ll most assuredly try to retaliate by attacking our funding from the city’s treasurers.”

Rhaine scoffed. “He can certainly try. But, in the end, I’m sure the Masked Lords will deter him from attempting to cause a religious feud in the city. That is in neither his nor their best interests.”

Dunstan shook his head, glancing down at his desk. “I hope.”

After a moment or two of heavy silence, then, she finally inquired, “Who _was_ this Geroff Millerson, precisely?”

“He was the esteemed head of a family responsible for one of the many coach and dray lines operating through the wards,” Dunstan answered without looking up. “From what I’ve been told, they began as horse breeders out on the farms and brought their trade into the city many years ago by lending their stock to the coachmen. It was Geroff who managed to transform their work into a healthy business, buying the coaches and drays outright and hiring the drivers with a regular salary.” He smirked, tapping the city map that was spread out across the top of his desk. “Ironically, Wynter’s family no doubt still uses carriages from the Millerson line for transport. The funerary procession is to follow the typical Millerson dray route, which goes straight through the Sea Ward where the Cassalanters dwell.

“But enough of that,” he finished, straightening with a wry smile. “We’ll handle whatever Wynter throws at us as it comes. Did you need something from me, Rhaine?”

“Actually, I wanted to show you something I received this morning,” she replied, withdrawing the letter from her robes as she approached and proffering it to him with a small smile.

“Oh?” Dunstan’s brow quirked as he took it. “Something of interest?”

She inclined her head. “Most certainly.”

Unfolding the paper, he cast his gaze to the penmanship upon it, his brown eyes darting back and forth as he took in the contents. It didn’t take him long to read, and his brows rose high once he reached the signature.

“You’ve garnered the attention of Lady Laeral?” he said at last as he glanced up. “I can’t say as I’m surprised. You are planning on answering this invitation soon, I trust?”

“That was what I wanted to ask you about,” she replied, pressing her lips together. “Do you think I should?”

He handed back the letter. “Of course I think you should. I think it would be foolish to waste an opportunity to speak to such a wise and intelligent woman as Laeral Silverhand. But what _I_ think should have no bearing on your decision,” he added, shaking his head. “The real question you should be asking yourself is if you _want_ to.”

She sighed heavily, refolding the parchment and stowing it away again. “That’s just the thing, Father. I don’t really know.”

He cocked his head. “You’re intimidated by her.”

At that, Rhaine let out a short laugh. “Yes. I am.”

Dunstan moved around his desk, then, half-sitting on the edge as his expression went thoughtful. “I have never met Lady Laeral, myself, but by all accounts, she is a kind and generous person. No doubt she wishes to merely get to know you a bit better. She and Khelben have been the only Chosen in this city for hundreds of years, you understand. Now that there is a third, she would naturally wish to see who it is in person.”

“But what if she is testing me?” Rhaine asked.

“Lady Laeral very well could be,” Dunstan conceded with a nod. “But I sincerely doubt it is a test you will fail, given your nature,” he added, winking. “Be polite, yet confident in who you are and the position you now hold. Remember that you are her equal, not her inferior, and that Kelemvor is at your back as much as Mystra is at hers.”

“It seems so strange to even consider it, even as I know it to be truth,” Rhaine replied, glancing away.

“I know. But in time, you will grow to understand it,” Dunstan encouraged gently. “And perhaps Lady Laeral wishes to assist you in such an endeavor. See this as a chance to better know _yourself_ , Rhaine,” he advised, reaching out to give her arm a firm, reassuring pat. “She will be able to offer you advice none but another Chosen would be able to impart to you.”

She nodded, smiling wryly. “Believe it or not, I had considered contacting her or Khelben at one time, for that very reason.”

“And why did you not?” Dunstan asked, cocking his head at her again.

Crossing her arms, Rhaine huffed. “Because I thought it would be a waste of her precious time.”

That elicited a low chuckle from him, and he shook his head in dismay. “Ah, Rhaine. How you trivialize yourself, so. The only person who can make such a judgment is Lady Laeral herself, and it is one I sincerely doubt she would make. I do not think she is the type to consider helping another come to terms with her new station in life – one that she also happens to hold and with which she has considerable experience – a waste of her time. Besides,” he added, “consider the timing of this invitation. Is it not… _coincidental_ … that her communication should come now, of all times? Especially after what you divulged to me yesterday?”

At that, Rhaine’s eyes widened. Had Laeral _scried_ her?

“Coincidental indeed,” she breathed at last, meeting Dunstan’s gaze. Then, steeling herself, she nodded once. “I think I will go see her, then. Today.”

He grinned, evidently pleased at her response. “Good. I am certain you will be very glad that you did. And, perhaps, you shall walk away with a very powerful friend, hmm?”

Rhaine mirrored his smile with her own as she moved towards the door. “Let us hope, dear Father.”

She had just reached the door and had taken hold of the handle when he added, “And Rhaine?”

“Yes?” she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Do wear something other than your robes. You _are_ going to afternoon tea, after all, not representing the Church on official business,” he reminded her, albeit with a wink.

That elicited a heavy sigh from her, and she shook her head at him even as she smiled. “ _Yes_ , Father.”

\------------------------------------------------------

After breakfast, Rhaine spent much of the remainder of the morning mulling over what she was going to wear to this impending meeting with a fellow Chosen. Thumbing through the varied items in her wardrobe, the Doomguide kept reminding herself that this was afternoon tea, not a formal affair; she was meeting a potential friend, not a queen. Thus, it seemed most appropriate to wear something tasteful, yet practical, whilst also avoiding anything remotely resembling her typical uniform, as Dunstan had advised.

Unfortunately, even with such guidelines in mind, her decision was a difficult one. Her current wardrobe, despite how expansive it was (all on Ingrid’s insistence, of course), consisted mostly of either elegant robes and dresses or armor, neither of which seemed to suit the occasion. There was, however, one outfit that seemed to stand out from the rest: a simple day attire consisting of a knee-length cobalt blue jacket and matching breeches, that seemed to be the best option out of all those she had currently available.

Sighing, she removed said articles from the rest and set about changing her apparel for the second time that day.

Her chemise she exchanged for proper underclothes of black leather lined with a double-layer of cotton – intended to be tough enough to withstand the punishment of being worn under armor, possibly for days on end. The brassiere hooked in the front with simple metal clasps, a single detachable strap that connected at the top of both cups and looped around the back of her neck for additional support. The bottoms were of similar design, the legs long enough to prevent riding up underneath tight-fitting breeches.

And this particular outfit did indeed have tight-fitting breeches. While Rhaine appreciated the sleek outline and the range of movement they provided, the process of getting the form-fitting material on over her legs was a frustratingly-tedious procedure involving inching them upwards and smoothing out wrinkles as she went.

The jacket itself was made of suede leather, with a tall collar and long sleeves that attached along the outer body and neck of the garment by way of silver buttons, allowing the back to remain open for her wings. Rhaine greatly appreciated Ingrid’s thoughtfulness when it came to the designs of all her outfits, ensuring she only had to worry about one set of limbs at a time when putting on her clothes every morning. She owed the girl much for streamlining her lifestyle, even as Ingrid simultaneously used the Doomguide as something of a test subject for her more creative designs…

Once the breeches and jacket were comfortably in place, Rhaine pulled on a pair of simple, tall black boots, made of soft and supple leather that was suitable for city business and adorned with silver studs at the knees. She didn’t plan on walking very far, however, even in such comfortable garb. It was much more convenient to hire a coach, especially for traveling all the way across the city as she would be.

Ultimately, she decided to leave her sword behind; regardless of her curiosity and possible appraisal of the Doomguide, Lady Laeral was certainly no foe, and Waterdeep’s streets were safe enough in broad daylight. Besides, she could defend herself quite well with spells, if push came to shove, especially in the time it would take for the Watch to be called.

Thus, her holy amulet was now the only sign of her vocation, though it was one thing that she would not remove for anyone. Indeed, she had only taken it off a handful of times since acquiring it as a gift what seemed like ages ago. It was one of her most precious belongings, crafted by an old friend who was now long-dead, and thus it was as much sentimental as it was a symbol of her spiritual devotion.

The only other piece of jewelry she sported was the golden ring she wore on her right hand. On the surface, it appeared to be a simple gold band, yet it was anything but. In her heart, she knew it to be a family ring Kelemvor had worn as a mortal man – a relic most of the clergy were unaware even existed – even though he himself had yet to acknowledge it as his own. But it had come into her possession in a time when she had needed confirmation of his support more than ever, and she refused to believe that it was a fake or that it was mere happenstance it had fallen into her hands. The warmth it radiated when touched, the sense of serenity that washed over her when she looked upon it, was too familiar. And so, it too had become a part of her daily wardrobe – an item she hardly ever removed from her person.

Perhaps it was selfish to feel so, but she did not trust her fellow clergymen with its handling. She had not mentioned the ring or its source to any of the others in her circle – not even Dunstan – and she had no plans to do so anytime soon. If anyone specifically asked her about it, she would only mention that she had found it and had taken a liking to it.

And it wasn’t precisely a lie.

Its personal meaning aside, the public disclosure of such an important artifact would cause nothing but trouble in the Church, she knew. The increased security risk from thieves, the possibility of charlatans attempting to make copies of it, the potential rivalry between the temples over which one possessed it… the possibilities were endless, and she refused to be responsible for causing such chaos.

No, some things were meant to be kept private.

At last satisfied with her appearance, Rhaine then departed her chambers once more, stopping by the dining hall for a brief chat with her usual table guests and informing them of her impending departure. She didn’t partake of any of the midday meal, on the off-chance that Laeral might serve refreshments with her tea, which Rhaine thought it would be rude to refuse if offered.

It was then, just before she rose from her chair, that Sir Niall stopped by on his way to the armory and requested a sparring match later in the afternoon, to which Rhaine agreed. It had been far too long since the Doomguide had flexed her combat muscles, an activity she had largely abandoned since returning to Waterdeep after her venture into the Underdark. In truth, she had found herself suddenly weary of fighting, and for a long while, even after becoming Chosen, she had avoided the practice yard altogether. But now, she realized it was time for her to resume old routines in full and brush up on her skills so that she would be prepared for anything Kelemvor might require of her.

Perhaps Niall had sensed this on some level and was attempting to ease her back into sparring sessions and practice exercises with such an invitation. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he had; the paladin was almost as intuitive as Ingrid…

In any case, it gave her yet another activity to look forward to for the day. Thus, with a set schedule ahead of her for once, she begged her leave and departed to call a hire-coach to Blackstaff Tower.

\------------------------------------------------------

It was only a half-hour after highsun – well within Laeral’s designated time frame for a meeting – when the single-horse hire-coach rolled to a halt outside the Chosen’s abode.

“Blackstaff Tower, milady!”

At the announcement of her arrival at her destination, Rhaine stepped from the coach, pressing the driver’s fare into his waiting palm; the coins had scarcely made contact with his hand before he’d whipped his mare into a trot again and he was off, leaving the Doomguide standing alone upon the sidewalk and craning her neck upwards at the imposing structure before her as she took in the details of its unique architecture.

She had only ever seen Blackstaff Tower from afar, as she had never had a need to travel to the Castle Ward before. It had always seemed a bit on the intimidating side, even from a distance, and that feeling didn’t change now that she stood before its gates. Enclosed by a stone wall at least twenty feet high, the tower seemed like a solid spire of ebon rock, no windows or doors other than the main entrance to be found…

“ _Ahem_.”

Her attention was drawn by an armored guard who stood outside the closed iron gate. His eyes were visible past his silvery helm, and he gestured to her as he added flatly, “Are you looking to visit Blackstaff Tower, lady?”

Rhaine straightened, withdrawing Laeral’s invitation from her pocket and presenting it to the guard. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I received this summons from Lady Silverhand this morning. She told me to give it to you, and that you would know what to do with it.”

The guard bore something of a bored expression on his face as he took the parchment from her with one hand, fishing around in a pouch at his belt with the other. After a moment, he withdrew a small device – a tiny, handheld lens that was most certainly magical in nature. Briefly holding it over the blank seal, he squinted, nodded once, and then jerked his head at the gate. “Right. Follow me.”

Turning, he approached the wrought iron gate, which at first glance appeared to have no method of closure until he lifted his left hand before it. His palm flashed with light at the gesture, and the gate suddenly split into two, swinging slowly inwards with the creak of metal.

“The Lady will be entertaining you in her quarters. I’ll take you straight there, since the tower’s a bit confusing to newcomers. Stay right behind me… and for the love of the gods, don’t get grabby.”

Rhaine blinked, her brows uplifted, although the guard wasn’t witness to such an expression. “I wouldn’t dream of it, goodsir.”

“Good. The last time someone did that, they disappeared for a whole tenday. Lad was almost mad when the Watch finally got ‘im.”

At that, the Chosen was silent. She had heard tales about what happened to potential thieves who tried to breach the tower’s defenses, and she had thought most of them rather outlandish and likely downright false. But it seemed there was an inkling of truth to some of them after all…

She followed the guard into the tower proper, passing through an entryway to a spiral staircase at the heart of the building. Along the way, she was witness to a great many wondrous magical sights – chief among them a myriad of doors and archways that floated midair, leading to who-knew-where. Then, in the stairwell itself, she was greeted by a massive collection of impressive artifacts on display on a great many shelves and alcoves along the walls; no doubt this was to what the guard was referring when he had warned her earlier. So many of these objects appeared unprotected and within easy reach, so that a competent thief might believe themselves able to pocket them before anyone noticed and without consequence.

But those who thought they could so easily steal from the likes of two Chosen of Mystra were likely severely lacking in cognitive faculties.

“Right,” the guard said at last, finally stopping at a door that stood open along the stairwell, “here we are.” He then rapped upon the surface of the door and leaned past the jamb. “Visitor, my lady, on your invitation. Lady Rhaine Alcinea.”

“Of course,” Rhaine heard a gentle, yet authoritative voice beyond. “Do let her in.”

The guard gave a nod to Rhaine and gestured for her to freely enter the room. Once she skirted past him, careful to keep her wings tucked, he silently closed the door behind him.

There, standing with her fingers interlaced as she expectantly watched her guest emerge, was Lady Laeral Silverhand Arunsun.

The Chosen of Mystra carried herself with a sort of elegant deportment Rhaine had seen before in elves, though the smile the Lady offered her was arguably much warmer than most she received from those of elven blood. Her stunning silver hair was quite long, reaching to her waist even elaborately-plaited as it was, and as she met her gaze, she realized that Laeral’s eyes matched those tresses in hue. Her complexion was like most humans of the North, her countenance one of agelessness – one might be able to place her anywhere from twenty to forty winters in age, give or take, though Rhaine knew she was, in fact, centuries older than that. The Doomguide was also rather relieved to see that it appeared Laeral had taken just as practical an approach to her attire as she had; though the violet dress she wore was undeniably beautiful, it was tasteful for daywear, its only ornamentation a bit of delicate golden embroidery around the hem and a matching fabric belt cinched at her waist.

“I must say, I was not expecting you to answer my invitation quite so quickly,” Laeral began at length. “Although I am most certainly glad you have done so. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

Rhaine inclined her head politely. “The pleasure is mine, I am sure, Lady Silverhand.”

Laeral’s smile widened a little, and she gestured to a small side table beneath a window opposite the door. “Please, do have a seat and make yourself comfortable. I shall have the tea ready anon.”

At that, Rhaine dipped her head again, following the Lady’s gesture while Laeral herself turned and crossed the chamber to attend to her tea. It was then the Doomguide allowed herself a brief look around to observe her surroundings. The room itself was almost like a parlor of sorts, a set of double doors far to the right no doubt leading to Laeral’s private quarters. The furnishings in the room were rich but tasteful, mostly of polished mahogany wood with dark upholstery that matched the rugs. What was most bewildering, however, was the presence of the windows, which clearly showed the harbor beyond the tower, even though no such windows were visible from the outside…

Just as she seated herself, then, Rhaine’s brows rose high as Laeral’s porcelain teapot and its accompanying cups began floating across the room towards her.

“Do you take your tea sweetened?”

The simple question paired with the magical arrangement of the teacups, saucers, and pot atop the table had Rhaine briefly tongue-tied. “Ah… no, my lady. I do not.”

“Somehow I suspected that would be your answer,” Laeral replied, turning back and approaching with a tiny silver pitcher in hand. “I have found I prefer it with honey, myself. After such a discovery, I fear I can’t take it plain anymore.”

As Laeral then seated herself opposite Rhaine, tucking her skirts beneath her, the Doomguide found herself oddly put at ease with the Lady’s light conversation, and she felt herself begin to relax. Thus, she offered, “To be honest, tea was never part of my life until I came to Waterdeep. At least not outside of local herbal tinctures.”

Laeral set the pitcher aside, and with a gesture, the teapot lifted itself and began pouring both their cups full of steaming dark brew. “That’s right… you’re from West Harbor, correct? Known for its export of mead, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes,” Rhaine replied with a nod, a small smile pulling at her lips. “Although, it was not always so.”

As soon as the teapot righted itself, Laeral picked up the silver pitcher and poured a generous dollop of golden honey into her cup. “I understand the war dealt the village a great blow, but it seems it has been thriving since, correct?”

“Yes, my lady. You are correct on both counts,” Rhaine confirmed, forcibly pushing back the dark thoughts that began lurking on the edge of the Doomguide’s consciousness whilst her hostess magicked a tiny silver spoon into stirring her tea.

“Speaking of such, allow me to belatedly give my personal thanks for your service to the Sword Coast,” Laeral added at length, her demeanor turning decidedly solemn. “In defeating the King of Shadows, you saved not only Neverwinter, but also perhaps the entirety of the Lords’ Alliance. I am not quite certain that Khelben, Alustriel, and I could have stopped him had you failed in your quest. Contained him, yes, but not destroyed him – not without creating further problems with a planar rift,” she clarified. “A good portion of the North would no doubt have been utterly lost in either instance. I understand it was a delicate Illefarn ritual that was required to defeat him – a relic from his own time. Such ancient magic is not an easy thing to replicate after Mystra’s Ban.

“But, in addition to banishing a great darkness from the land,” she continued, “you also allowed the strengthening of trade routes across the Coast with your Crossroad Keep. Waterdeep and the rest of the Alliance have flourished in the wake of your influence, and they will continue to do so for decades to come. For that alone, we all owe you a great debt of gratitude.”

At that, Rhaine glanced down at her tea, watching the steam curl upwards from its dark surface. “I did only my duty to my god, my people, and my homeland. There is no need to thank me for that, my lady.”

“On the contrary,” Laeral countered, picking up her teacup and watching Rhaine with a sharp silver gaze over its rim, “I believe you have done far more, and that your newest title is most assuredly evidence of it.” She took a sip of her tea, slowly setting the cup back down upon its saucer. “I hear that you _might_ be the one responsible for snuffing out what life force remained of Myrkul himself… that you even set foot in the realm of the dead and returned alive, all to end a terrible curse created by that same dead god. Tell me… are these rumors true?”

At that Rhaine stiffened a little, even as her fingers curled around the handle of her own cup. She had informed no other than Dunstan of such things. How would Laeral know anything about it?

But then, she remembered: the Simbul of Aglarond was another of the Seven Sisters. No doubt rumors had reached the Simbul’s ears through the Wychlaran of what had occurred in neighboring Rashemen. And no doubt she had subsequently informed her siblings of such momentous events. After all, powerful magic ravaging the Realms was the business of the Chosen of Mystra, and the curse of Akachi was nothing if not that…

Rhaine took a sip of her tea, and then huffed out a sigh as she set down the cup, meeting Laeral’s gaze. “Yes. They are true. But it is not with pride that I admit to either of those deeds. Again… I did what had to be done.”

“And ended great evil in the process,” Lady Silverhand commented. “I do not think the world will miss either the Lord of Bones or his Spirit-Eater of Rashemen. But I thank you for your honesty,” she continued, sipping at her tea again. “Your words to me confirm what I already suspected of your character, and though I cannot claim to know the mind of a god – not even Mystra’s – I can guess why the Lord of the Dead decided to give your power to you.”

Laeral then paused for a moment, glancing to the window beside their table as she yet held her cup in her hands. “It is not lost upon me that this very tower was where your patron drew his last breath as a mortal man. And now his Chosen walks these halls.” A wry smile pulled at her lips, and she returned her attention to Rhaine. “And so it all comes full-circle. A sign of his ultimate victory, wouldn’t you agree?”

The Doomguide nodded slowly, then, mulling over Laeral’s words and smiling a little as she drank from her tea again. “I suppose so, yes.”’

“One can only wonder what he plans next for you,” Lady Silverhand remarked, leaning back in her chair.

“Whatever those plans are,” Rhaine replied, “I will be ready to serve in any capacity my lordship requires.”

At that, Laeral smiled knowingly. “I imagine there will be plenty of work headed in your direction very soon. These things have a way of happening when you least expect them. And most certainly when they are least convenient. But enough of duty,” she said, waving her hand in the air as if to clear it. “Tell me… how are you faring since such a prestigious promotion? No doubt it is taking you some time to adjust to this path, even if you did choose it. I remember well the moment I began to walk it.”

Rhaine blinked, and her brow furrowed a little. “I… didn’t choose it, my lady.”

Laeral’s eyebrows rose high. “He did not give you a choice in the matter?”

The Doomguide took a breath as she glanced away. “I recall what he told me as if it were yesterday. His words were, and I quote, ‘Do not protest with thoughts of unworthiness. It is not something that you may refuse’.”

For the first time during the course of their conversation, Laeral looked utterly astonished. And then, suddenly, her lips split into a wide grin, her free hand lifting to cover her mouth. “Oh, my. So he anticipated you would say no to the offer, but only on the grounds that you were not worthy of the gift, and so he gave it to you anyway before you could do so.” A small chuckle escaped her despite her obvious attempts to hold it back. “By Mystra, that tells me so much about both him _and_ you.”

Rhaine cringed. “Only… good things, I hope?”

“Of course!” Laeral leaned forward again, setting down her cup. “It becomes ever more evident that you are a woman who does not seek power and influence for its own sake. All the more reason for Kelemvor to trust you with it.”

It was then that Rhaine sighed again. “That… is one of the things that I have been grappling with since day one,” she admitted, taking a thoughtful sip. It was then she noticed that hand-painted green frogs adorned the teapot all around its girth, interspersed with bright yellow flowers…

“Ah, yes,” Laeral replied knowingly, leaning one forearm upon the table. “It is only natural to doubt yourself. To deem yourself unqualified to wield such divinely-granted powers. It is difficult to imagine that any of we mortals are trustworthy enough, with all our innate shortcomings, to do so. But there is something the gods see that catches their eyes regardless, else they wouldn’t grant such gifts in the first place. Something they see that we are incapable of seeing in ourselves. I do realize I speak as a daughter of my goddess,” she added with a wink, “but I like to think that’s not the sole reason she offered me such a position.”

Her light-hearted words evoked another small smile from Rhaine, though they also recalled what Dunstan had told her the day before. It seemed _everyone_ saw things that she didn’t see in herself, and she would just have to learn to… live with it, somehow. To ignore her personal criticisms and simply accept the praises of others, whether she saw herself as worthy of them or not.

_Easier said than done…_

“I know I should understand that I can only do the best I can,” the Doomguide said at length, huffing out another breath, “but how can I be satisfied when I _know_ that best is not good enough?”

Laeral reached across the table, patting the top of her hand reassuringly. “Remind yourself that no one is perfect. Not even the gods.”

Then, suddenly, the Lady’s silver gaze flicked to the ring upon Rhaine’s finger, and her brow knitted softly. “And here I was wondering if that powerful aura was coming from you or your accessory here. That is… quite the impressive enchantment, if I may say.”

Rhaine blinked, staring at the gold band. For a moment, she was stunned to silence at Laeral’s apparent ability to sense an item’s enchantment merely by _looking_ at it. Furthermore, she had assumed the sensations she felt when holding the ring came solely from its close association with her patron, not from any actual imbuement, and so this knowledge came as no small surprise to her.

“It’s enchanted?” the Doomguide repeated, somewhat incredulously.

Laeral exchanged glances with her. “You didn’t know?”

Rhaine shook her head, her brow raised. “I had no idea. I thought it more sentimental than anything else. You know what magic it bears?”

At that, Lady Silverhand nodded, her expression one of obvious interest. “It wards against death, and also has the power of true resurrection stored within it. And you were unaware of this the entire time you have possessed it?” She cocked her head curiously. “May I ask how you obtained it? Is it an heirloom, perhaps, or…?”

As the Lady’s questions trailed off, Rhaine took a breath, hesitant to share the information but feeling compelled nonetheless, especially in light of Laeral’s observation. “I… found it. While I was in Thay. It simply caught my eye and I felt… drawn to it. I have kept it ever since.”

“Might I see it?”

The Doomguide paused. Yet, sensing she needed to know whatever else Laeral could find out about the artifact, she ultimately relented, sliding the golden ring from her finger and placing it upon the tea table. The Chosen of Mystra then carefully took it in hand, gasping a little when she touched it. Rhaine watched intently as Laeral’s brow furrowed deeper, her pale gaze almost appearing to see into the ring’s very substance as she examined it more closely.

And then, as she rotated the band in her hands, the Lady’s eyes widened a little, and then she gave a slow nod of understanding – do doubt she’d found the inscription. “That… explains _much_.” She glanced to Rhaine, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Now I know the reason for your reticence.” Her smile then widened as she held the ring out upon her palm, returning it. “How fortuitous that such a relic should fall into your hands. And now that you know its true power, perhaps you can use it as it was meant to be.”

Rhaine took the ring back from Laeral’s hand, that permeating sense of tranquility briefly washing over her again as she slid it upon her finger once more. “Is there anything else I should know about it?”

"I suppose it should be known that, unlike the magic of staves or wands, the power to bring someone back from dead does not, in fact, wane from this ring," Laeral replied. "However, attempting to use it more than thrice within a day's cycle could yield disastrous results."

Her brows lifted again, but the Doomguide nodded her understanding. “Thank you, my lady. I… am glad to be aware of its capabilities.”

“Indeed,” Laeral merely inclined her head. “Is there anything else I might help you with, while you are here? Any questions you have that I may be able to answer?” She took her cup in hand once more. “The various advantages associated with being a Chosen vary per individual, of course, but there are some commonalities of which I can likely offer insight, if you require it. Did Kelemvor inform you of all of them, or have you discovered them on your own?”

Rhaine paused, drinking from her teacup again. “My lordship implied various abilities and protections, but he only elaborated upon three of them at the time. He… described two powers to me in detail, and he also mentioned that age will no longer have an effect on me,” she explained, reluctant to share much more than that, even if Laeral was a potential ally. “Regardless, he also informed me in no uncertain terms that I would not walk the Prime forever, despite this boon…”

Lady Silverhand, after taking a drink of her own tea, nodded knowingly. “Ah, of course. You see, the process of becoming Chosen involves the suffusion of your very self with raw divine energy. It seeps into your very being, subjugating you to a slow transformation. It begins with agelessness, and it ends when the last shred of true mortality departs your body.” Her fingernails tapped her teacup as she paused, thinking. “The rate of this transformation is different depending upon the Chosen in question and the desires of his or her patron,” she continued at length, “but, over time, you will find that your typical mortal needs will lessen until they are nonexistent. I, for example, have no true need to sleep any longer.” She mentioned this with something of a wry smile upon her lips. “You, on the other hand, are what they call a Favored Soul, are you not?”

Rhaine nodded her confirmation, memories of such a discovery swimming to the surface of her mind. “Yes. I am.”

“Then the power you call upon is generated from within your own spirit, and requires proper rest to replenish itself,” Laeral continued. “Thus, I cannot imagine you will ever truly lack the need for such. You will likely become aware of other benefits that are equally as useful, though.”

The Doomguide was silent for a long moment as she absorbed her fellow Chosen’s words. “There is one thing that I have noticed already, and I had wondered if it was connected,” she began at last. “I was bestowed this title little more than two months ago, and in that time, my… _cycle_ … has not arrived as expected. Is this normal?” she asked.

Though she could not say its absence was something she disliked, it was also mildly concerning, considering she was not old enough to have halted her menses, yet.

“Yes, it is very much so,” Lady Silverhand answered without hesitation, which offered immediate peace of mind, “linked to your lack of aging, but also to the fact that it is ultimately up to your patron whether or not you are allowed a family of your own. This is another aspect that varies per the individual,” she explained. “Myself for example… in all the years I have lived, only one child has been mine and I…” she trailed, taking a breath, “was not in my right mind at the time. My sister Alustriel, however,” she added with something of a smirk, “has had no difficulties at all mothering children. Of course, she is also far more _settled_ than I am.”

Rhaine finished her tea, setting her cup and saucer aside before glancing to the window, her thoughts churning. “I see. Do you know, perhaps, what other developments I might anticipate in the future?”

“Well,” Laeral sat back in her chair again, glancing away as she mulled over the Doomguide’s question, “you mentioned your lordship hinted at other powers and safeguards, and these are very likely closely tied to his sphere of influence. Since he did not feel the need to explain them beforehand, you will most assuredly discover them when you have need of them.” She returned her gaze to Rhaine’s. “You may find certain spells or rituals associated with your position come easier to you, or that protections related to Kelemvor’s domains ward you always.” She sipped of her tea. “In any case, simply keep your heart, your mind, and your eyes open, and in time, you will understand what you have been given, and what you are capable of.”

At that, Rhaine smiled, grateful for the Lady’s sage advice. “Thank you. Your words have been of great help to me. Indeed, I feel more… _comfortable_ … with myself than I have in a while. It is good to be able to speak of these things to one who understands them.”

Laeral mirrored her expression. “I am pleased to hear it, and I am glad we could finally meet and have a little chat about it all. I must say that it has been a most enjoyable distraction.” She then polished off her own tea, setting the cup upon its saucer with the tiniest _click_. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I must bring it to its inevitable close. The endless calamities of the Sword Coast will not wait.”

“Of course,” Rhaine replied, dipping her head as she stood. “I will be on my way, then, and let you resume your business.”

“Do feel free to contact me anytime you need further advice, however,” Laeral offered, standing opposite the Doomguide. “Or if you need assistance in any other way. I will be more than happy to help you, if I can.”

“Thank you again, my lady,” Rhaine answered with a nod of gratitude. “And… might I also extend an invitation to my temple in return? Our doors are always open, and you will be welcome in its halls.”

Laeral’s smile widened. “Your kind offer is appreciated, and I will certainly consider it. I must admit,” she added, “it does invoke the tiniest bit of curiosity...”

Rhaine chuckled a little. “A common reaction, indeed. Good day to you, Lady Silverhand, and may Mystra continue to watch over you.”

“And may Kelemvor continue to guide you,” Laeral returned sincerely.

And with that, the Doomguide departed the Lady’s chambers to return to her temple, her heart just a little lighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Ingrid, Ilmvyr, Freya, and Bjorg are the creations of @SnippetsRUs.


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